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POEMS 



THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 



£1 Ktfo anfc HSnlanjcb HE&t'tion:. 






PHILADELPHIA: 
A. HABT, late CABBY and HART. 

MDOCCLUI. 



.Es"3 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by 

A. HART, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, 

in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 



E. B. MEARS, STEREOTYPER. T. K. & P. G. COLLINS, PRINTERS. 



I. 






TO 



CYRUS GARRETT, ESQ. 

OF CINCINNATI, OHIO. 

THOUGH THESE POEMS SHOULD PBOVE AS LASTING AS THE IRON 
YOU HAVE FORGED, -OR AS TRAN.SIT.NT AS THE SPARKS 
FROM YOUR ANVIL, -WHATEVER THEIR FATE 
MAY BE, TnEY ARE AFFECTION- 
ATELY DEDICATKD 
TO YOU 
BY 

THE AUTHOR. 



CONTENTS. 



My Hermitage Page 13 

An Invitation 17 

A Song 20 

The Deserted Road 22 

A Butterfly in the City 25 

The Way-side Spring 27 

A Maying 30 

The Summer Shower 3G 

Inez 38 

Sunlight on the Threshold 42 

Midnight 4G 

The Light of our Home 48 

The two Doves 52 

Solemn Voices 55 

Some Things love Me 57 

Passing the Icebergs BO 

Christine G4 

(5) 



vi CONTENTS. 

The Fairer Land 79 

Arise 82 

The Maid of Linden Lane 84 

The Swiss Street-singer 90 

A Leaf from the Past 92 

Rosalie 95 

The Stranger on the Sill 103 

Endymfon 105 

Hazel Dell 107 

A Glimpse of Love 110 

Lines to a Blind Girl 112 

A Call for Volunteers . . . . . . .114 

Love's Gallery 116 

The Miners 123 

The Winnower 125 

Fragments from the Realm of Dreams 128 

" Come, gentle trembler" 136 

The Frozen Goblet 138 

The City of the Heart ........ 144 

The Beggar of Naples 148 

The Brickmaker 159 

Song for a Sabbath Morning 166 

The Nameless 168 

To Wordsworth 170 

A Morning, but no Sun 171 

To the Master Bards . . . . . . . .173 

" Oli, wherefore sigh ?" 174 

The Way 175 

The Great arc falling from Us 178 



CONTENTS. Vll 

The Departure 180 

Bells . 182 

Night 184 

Winter 186 

The Bards 188 

The Distant Mart 191 

The Twins 191 

Outward Bound 197 

A Night at the Black Sign 199 

A Deserted Farm 203 

Lines to a Bird 205 

The Sculptor's Last Hour 208 

The Sculptor's Funeral 211 

Doomed and Forgotten 220 

Song of the Alpine Guide 225 

Morning in Martigny • 228 

A Maiden's Tears 230 

Woman 232 

The City of God 234 

The Truant 238 

The Little Sisters • . . .240 

The Marseillaise 242 

The Old Year 245 

Indian Summer 210 

Freedom's Day 247 

A Psalm for the Sorrowing 252 

Once more into the Open Air 254 

A Night Thought 256 

Ituth 2C0 



Vlll CONTENTS. 

Song of the Serf 262 

Balboa " 264 

The New Village 2G8 

An Hour with Nature ....... 274 

Lines written in Florence 279 

Labour 281 

The Windy Night 283 

A Dirge for a Dead Bird 286 

The Land of the West 288 

The Withering Leaves 290 

The Closing Scene 292 

Pioneers of Art 296 

The Pilgrim to the Land of Song ... . . .299 

A Cup of Wine to the Old Year . . • . . .803 

The Awakening Year 308 • 

Prologue to an unpublished Serio-comic Poem . . . 310 

Venice 313 

Nightfall 319 

The Alchemist's Daughter 321 ! 

A Vision of Death 344 

L'Envoi 351 



MY HERMITAGE. 



Within a wood, one summer's day, 

And in a hollow, ancient trunk, 
I shut me from the world away, 

To live as lives a hermit monk. 

My cell was a ghostly sycamore, 

The roots and limbs were dead with age ; 

Decay had carved the gothic door 
Which looked into my hermitage. 

My library was large and full, 

Where, ever as a hermit plods, 

I read until my eyes were dull 

With tears; for all those tomes were God's. 
2 (13) 



14 MY HERMITAGE. 

The vine that at my doorway swung 
Had verses writ on every leaf, 

The very songs the bright bees sung 
In honey-seeking visits brief — 

Not brief — though each stayed never long- 
So rapidly they came and went 

No pause was left in all their song, 

For while they borrowed still they lent. 

All day the woodland minstrels sang — 
Small feet were in the leaves astir — 

And often o'er my doorway rang 
The tap of a blue-winged visiter. 

Afar the stately river swayed, 

And poured itself in giant swells, 

While here the brooklet danced and played, 
And gayly rung its liquid bells. 

The springs gave me their crystal flood, 
And my contentment made it wine — - 

And oft I found what kingly food 
Grew on the world-forgotten vine. 



MY HERMITAGE. 15 

The moss, or weed, or running flower, 

Too humble in their hope to climb, 
Had in themselves the lovely power 

To make me happier for the time. 

And when the starry night came by, 

And stooping looked into my cell, 
Then all between the earth and sky 

Was circled in a holier spell. 

A height, and depth, and breadth sublime 
O'erspread the scene, and reached the stars, 

Until Eternity and Time 

Seemed drowning their dividing bars. 

And voices which the day ne'er hears, 
And visions which the sun ne'er sees, 

From earth and from the distant spheres, 
Came on the moonlight and the breeze. 

Thus day and night my spirit grew 

In love with that which round me shone, 

Until my calm heart fully knew 
The joy it is to be alone. 



16 MY HERMITAGE. 

The time went by — till one fair dawn 

I saw against the eastern fires 
A visionary city drawn, 

With dusky lines of domes and spires. 

The wind in sad and fitful spells 

Blew o'er it from the gates of morn, 

Till I could clearly hear the bells 
That rung above a world forlorn. 

And well I listened to their voice, 

And deeply pondered what they said — 

Till I arose — there was no choice — 
I went while yet the east was red. 

My wakened heart for utterance yearned — 
The clamorous wind had broke the spell — 

I needs must teach what I had learned 
Within my simple woodland cell. 



AN INVITATION. 



INSCRIBED TO GEORGE HAMMERSLEY. 



Come thou, my friend ; — the cool autumnal eves 
About the hearth have drawn their magic rings ; 

There, while his song of peace the cricket weaves, 
The simmering hickory sings. 



The winds unkennelled round the casements whine, 

The sheltered hound makes answer in his dream, 

And in the hayloft, hark, the cock at nine, 

Crows from the dusty beam. 

2* (17) 



18 AN INVITATION. 

The leafless branches chafe the roof all night, 
And through the house the troubled noises go, 

While, like a ghostly presence, thin and white, 
The frost foretells the snow. 



The muffled owl within the swaying elm 

Thrills all the air with sadness as he swings, 

Till sorrow seems to spread her shadowy realm 
About all outward things. 

Come, then, my friend, and this shall seem no more- 
Come when October walks his red domain, 

Or when November from his windy floor 
Winnows the hail and rain : 

And when old Winter through his fingers numb 
Blows till his breathings on the windows gleam ) 

And when the mill-wheel spiked with ice is dumb 
Within the neighbouring stream : 

Then come, for nights like these have power to wake 
The calm delight no others may impart, 

When round the fire true souls communing make 
A summer in the heart. 



AN INVITATION. 19 

And I will weave athwart the mystic gloom, 

"With hand grown weird in strange romance, for thee, 

Bright webs of fancy from the golden loom 
Of charmed Poesy. 

And let no censure in thy looks be shown, 
That I, with hands adventurous and bold, 

Should grasp the enchanted shuttle which was thrown 
Through mightier warps of old. 



A SONG. 



Bring me the juice of the honey fruit. 

The large translucent, amber-hued, 
Eare grapes of southern isles, to suit 

The luxury that fills my mood. 

And bring me only such as grew 

Where fairest maidens tend the bowers, 

And only fed by rain and dew 

Which first had bathed a bank of flowers. 

(20) 



A SONG. 21 



They must have hung on spicy trees 
In airs of far enchanted vales, 

And all night heard the ecstasies 
Of noble-throated nightingales : 



So that the virtues which belong 
To flowers may therein tasted be, 

And that which hath been thrilled with song 
May give a thrill of song to me. 

For I would wake that string for thee 
Which hath too long in silence hung, 

And sweeter than all else should be 
The song which in thy praise is sung. 



THE DESERTED ROAD. 



Ancient road, that wind'st deserted 
Through the level of the vale, 

Sweeping toward the crowded market 
Like a stream without a sail ; 

Standing by thee, I look backward, 
And, as in the light of dreams, 

See the years descend and vanish, 
Like thy whitely tented teams. 

(22) 



THE DESERTED ROAD. 23 

Here I stroll along the village 

As in youth's departed morn ; 
But I miss the crowded coaches, 

And the driver's bugle-horn — 

Miss the crowd of jovial teamsters 

Filling buckets at the wells, 
With their wains from Conestoga, 

And their orchestras of bells. 

To the mossy way-side tavern 

Comes the noisy throng no more, 
And the faded sign, complaining, 

Swings, unnoticed, at the door; 

While the old, decrepid tollman, 

Waiting for the few who pass, 
Reads the melancholy story 

In the thickly springing grass. 

Ancient highway, thou art vanquished ; 

The usurper of the vale 
Rolls in fiery, iron rattle, 

Exultations on the gale. 



24 THE DESERTED ROAD. 

Thou art vanquished and neglected ; 

But the good which thou hast done, 
Though by man it be forgotten, 

Shall be deathless as the sun. 

Though neglected, gray and grassy, 
Still I pray that my decline 

May be through as vernal valleys 
And as blest a calm as thine. 



A BUTTERFLY IN THE CITY. 



Dear transient spirit of the fields, 
Thou com'st without distrust, 

To fan the sunshine of our streets 
Among the noise and dust. 

Thou leadcst in thy wavering flight 

My footsteps unaware, 

Until I seem to walk the vales 

And breathe thy native air. 

(25) 



26 A BUTTERFLY IN THE CITY. 

And thou hast fed upon the flowers, 
And drained their honeyed springs, 

Till every tender hue they wore 
Is blooming on thy wings. 

I bless the fresh and flowery light 

Thou bringest to the town, 
Eut tremble lest the hot turmoil 

Haye power to weigh thee down ; 

For thou art like the poet's song, 

Arrayed in holiest dyes, 
Though it hath drained the honeyed wells 

Of flowers of Paradise, 

Though it hath brought celestial hues 

To light the ways of life, 
The dust shall weigh its pinions down 

Amid the noisy strife. 

And yet, perchance, some kindred soul 

May see its glory shine, 
And feel its wings within his heart 

As bright as I do thine. 



THE WAY-SIDE SPRING. 



Fair dweller by the dusty way — 
Bright saiut within a mossy shrine, 

The tribute of a heart to-day 
"Weary and worn is thine. 

The earliest blossoms of the year, 

The sweet-briar and the violet 

The pious hand of Spring has here 

Upon thy altar set. 

(27) 



28 THE WAT-SIDE SPRING. 

And not alone to thee is given 

The homage of the pilgrim's knee — 

But oft the sweetest birds of Heaven 
Glide down and sing to thee. 

Here daily from his beechen cell 
The hermit squirrel steals to drink, 

And flocks which cluster to their bell 
Recline along thy brink. 

And here the wagoner blocks his wheels, 
To quaff the cool and generous boon ; 

Here from the sultry harvest fields 
The reapers rest at noon. 

And oft the beggar masked with tan, 
In rusty garments gray with dust, 

Here sits and dips his little can, 
And breaks his scanty crust; 

And, lulled beside thy whispering stream, 
Oft drops to slumber unawares, 

And sees the angel of his dream 
Upon celestial stairs. 



THE WAY-SIDE SPRING. 29 

Dear dweller by the dusty way, 

Thou saint within a mossy shrine, 
The tribute of a heart to-day 

AVcary and worn is thine ! 



3* 



A MAYING. 



PART FIRST. 

Now sitting under orchard limbs, 

When all the world has gone a-Maying, 

Oh, how the fancy soars and skims, 
With yonder fitful swallow playing ! 

Like snowy tents, the trees in bloom 

Stand courting every bee that's winging ; 

And in the depths of their perfume 
A whole community is singing. 

The wind upon these murmuring bowers, 

From out the fields of clover blowing, 

Shakes down a storm of scented flowers, 

As if to fright me with its snowing. 

(30) 



A MAYING. 31 

The blue-bird, which from Southern skies 
Takes yearly on his wings their azure, 

Now through the falling blossoms flies, 
And thrills the passing air with pleasure. 

Oh, would that I could thus take flight, 
And be, like him, the earliest comer, 

That all should hear me with delight, 

And bless the song that promised summer ! 

Along the quiet, neighbouring town, 

The children chant their gladsome marches ; 

Each with a woodland gathered crown, — 
Some under flowery iris-arches. 

Afar and near the music swells — 

The breeze is glad to waft their singing, 

For never chime of fairy bells 

Filled poet's soul with sweeter ringing. 

See where they go ! — a very cloud 

With rosy pleasure overladen ! 
Sure Flora hath to-day endowed 

With her own form each little maiden. 



32 A MAYING. 

A gladness thrills the waiting grove 
While they go singing gayly over ; — 

The very fields are waked to love, 

And nod them welcome with the clover. 

And every flower where stoops the breeze 
With just enough of force to stir it, 

Kings out its little chime of bees, 
In pleasure from its vernal turret. 

The springs release their fullest floods, 
From earth's overflowing heart, unbidden. 

The woodlands ope their latest buds, 
There's not a leaf that may be hidden. 

Yes, surely there's a love abroad, 

Through every nerve of nature playing, — 

And all between the sky and sod, 

All, all the world has gone a-Maying ! 



SECOND PART. 



Oh, wherefore do I sit and give 
My Fancy up to idle playing ? 



A MAYING. 33 



Too well I know the half who live — 
One-half the world is NOT a-Maying. 



Where are the dwellers of the lanes, 
The alleys of the stifled city ? 

Where the waste forms whose sad remains 
Woo Death to come for very pity ? 



Where they who tend the busy loom, 
With pallid cheek and torn apparel 1 

The buds they weave will never bloom, 
Their staring birds will never carol. 



It may be at the thought, their souls 

Are crushed to-day in their abasement, — 

Oh, better they should house with owls, 
With poison vines about their casement ! 



And where the young of every size 
The factories draw from every by-way, 

Whose violets are each other's cj-cs, 
But dull as by a dusty highway ? — 



34 A MAYING. 

Whose cotton lilies only grow 

'Mid whirring wheels, on jarring spindles, 
Their roses in the hectic glow 

To tell how fast the small life dwindles ? 



Or she who plies the midnight thread 
The while her orphan ones are sleeping, 

And trembles lest, for want of bread, 

They start from troubled dreams to weeping ? 

Not all the floral wealth that sweeps 
The brow of May in splendour shining, 

Were worth to her the crust that keeps 
Her little ones to-day from pining. 

Where are the dusky miners ? they 
Who, even in the earth descending, 

Know well the night before their May 
Is one which has in life no ending ? 

To them 'tis still a joy, I ween, 

To know, while through the darkness going, 
That o'er their heads the smiling queen 

Stands with her countless garlands glowing. 



A MAYING. 35 

Oh, ye who toil in living tombs 

Of light or dark — no rest receiving, 
Far o'er your heads a May-time blooms — 

Oh, then be patient and believing. 

Be patient — when Earth's winter fails, 

The weary night which keeps ye staying — 

Then through the broad celestial vales 
Your spirits shall go out a-Maying ! 



THE SUMMER SHOWER. 



Before the stout harvesters falleth the grain, 
As when the strong storm-wind is reaping the plain ; 
And loiters the boy in the briery lane ) 
But yonder aslant comes the silvery rain, 
Like a long line of spears brightly burnished and tall. 

Adown the white highway, like cavalry fleet, 
It dashes the dust with its numberless feet. 
Like a murmurless school, in their leafy retreat, 
The wild birds sit listening the drops round them beat; 
And the boy crouches close to the blackberry wall. 

(36) 



THE SUMMER SHOWER. 37 

The swallows alone take the storm on their wing, 
And, taunting the tree-sheltered labourers, sing. 
Like pebbles the rain breaks the face of the spring, 
While a bubble darts up from each widening ring ; 
And the boy, in dismay, hears the loud shower fall. 

But soon are the harvesters tossing the sheaves ; 
The robin darts out from its bower of leaves ; 
The wren peereth forth from the moss-covered eaves ; 
And the rain-spattered urchin now gladly perceives 
That the beautiful bow bendcth over them all. 



INEZ, 



Down behind the hidden village, fringed around with 
hazel brake, 

(Like a holy hermit dreaming, half asleep and half 
awake, 

One who loveth the sweet quiet for the happy quiet's 
sake,) 

Dozing, murmuring in its visions, lay the heaven-ena- 
moured lake. 

And within a dell, where shadows through the brightest 
days abide, 

Like the silvery swimming gossamer by breezes scat- 
tered wide, 

Fell a shining skein of water that ran down the lakelet's 
side, 

As within the brain by beauty lulled, a pleasant thought 

may glide. 

(38) 



INEZ. 39 

"When the sinking sun of August, growing large in the 

decline, 
Shot his arrows long and golden through the maple and 

the pine ; 
And the russet-thrush fled singing from the alder to the 

vine, 
While the cat-bird in the hazel gave its melancholy 

whine ; 



And the little squirrel chattered, peering round the 

hickory bole, 
And, a-sudden like a meteor, gleamed along the 

oriole ; — 
There I walked beside fair Inez, and her gentle beauty 

stole 
Like the scene athwart my senses, like the sunshine 

through my soul. 



And her fairy feet that pressed the leaves, a pleasant 

music made, 
And they dimpled the sweet beds of moss with blossoms 
thick inlaid : — 



40 INEZ. 

There I told her old romances, and with love's 'sweet woe 

we played, 
Till fair Inez' eyes, like evening, held the dew beneath 

their shade. 



There I wove for her love ballads, such as lover only 

weaves, 
Till she sighed and grieved, as only mild and loving 

maiden grieves ; 
And to hide her tears she stooped to glean the violets 

from the leaves, 
As of old sweet Huth went gleaning 'mid the oriental 

sheaves. 



Down we walked beside the lakelet : — gazing deep into 

her eye, 
There I told her all my passion ! With a sudden blush 

and sigh, 
Turning half away with look askant, she only made 

reply, 
" How deep within the water glows the happy evening 

sky I" 



INEZ. 41 

Then I asked her if she loved me, and our hands met 

each in each, 
And the dainty, sighing ripples seemed to listen up the 

reach ; 
While thus slowly with a hazel wand she wrote along 

the beach, 
" Love, like the sky, lies deepest ere the heart is stirred 

to speech." 



Thus I gained the love of Inez — thus I won her gentle 
hand; 

And our paths now lie together, as our footprints on the 
strand ; 

"We have vowed to love each other in the golden morn- 
ing land, 

When our names from earth have vanished, like the 
writing from the sand ! 



/ 
4* 



SUNLIGHT ON THE THRESHOLD. 



Dear Mary, I remember yet 

The day when first we rode together, 

Through groves where grew the violet, 
For it was in the Maying weather. 

And I remember how the woods 

Were thrilled with love's delightful chorus ; 
How in the scented air the buds, 

Like our young hearts, were swelling o'er us. 

The little birds, in tuneful play, 
Along the fence before us fluttered ; 

The robin hopped across the way, 

Then turned to hear the words we uttered ! 

(42) 



SUNLIGHT ON THE THRESHOLD. 43 

We stopped beside the willow-brook, 

That trickled through its bed of rushes ; 

While timidly the reius you took, 

I gathered blooms from briar bushes ; 

And one I placed, with fingers meek, 

Within your little airy bonnet ; 
But then I looked and saw your cheek — 

Another rose was blooming on it ! 

Some miles beyond the village lay, 

Where pleasures were in wait to wreathe us ; 

While swiftly flew the hours away, 
As swiftly flew the road beneath us. 

How gladly we beheld arise, 

Across the hill, the village steeple ; 
Then met the urchin's wondering eyes, 

And gaze of window-peering people ! 

The dusty coach that brought the mail, 

Before the office-door was standing ; 
Beyond, the blacksmith, gray and hale, 

With burning tiro the w T heel was banding. 



44 SUNLIGHT ON THE THRESHOLD. 

We passed some fruit-trees — after these 
A bedded garden lying sunward ; 

Then saw, beneath three aged trees, 
The parsonage a little onward. 

A modest building, somewhat gray, 

Escaped from time, from storm, disaster ; 

The very threshold worn away 

With feet of those who'd sought the pastor. 

And standing on the threshold there, 
We saw a child of angel lightness ; 

Her soul-lit face — her form of air, 

Outshone the sunlight with their brightness ! 

As then she stood I see her now — 
In years perchance a half a dozen — 

And Mary, you remember how 

She ran to you and called you " cousin ?" 

As then, I see her slender size, 

Her flowing locks upon her shoulder — 

A six years' loss to Paradise, 

And ne'er on earth the child grew older ! 



SUNLIGHT ON THE THRESHOLD. 45 

Three times the flowers have dropped away, 

Three winters glided gayly o'er us, 
Since here upon that morn in May 

The little maiden stood before us. 

These are the elms, and this the door, 
With trailing woodbine overshaded j 

But from the step, for evermore, 

The sunlight of that child has faded ! 



MIDNIGHT. 



The moon looks down on a world of snow, 
And the midnight lamp is burning low, 
And the fading embers mildly glow 

In their bed of ashes soft and deep; 
All, all is still as the hour of death j 
I only hear what the old clock saith, 
And the mother and infant's easy breath, 

That flows from the holy land of Sleep. 

Say on, old clock — I love you well, 

For your silver chime, and the truths you tell, 

Your every stroke is but the knell 

Of hope, or sorrow buried deep ; 

Say on — but only let me hear 

The sound most sweet to my listening ear, 

The child and the mother breathing clear 

Within the harvest-fields of Sleep. 

(46) 



MIDNIGHT. 47 



Thou watchman, on thy lonely round, 
I thank thee for that warning sound ; 
The clarion cock and the baying hound 

Not less their dreary vigils keep ; 
Still hearkening, I will love you all, 
"While in each silent interval 
I hear those dear breasts rise and fall 

Upon the airy tide of Sleep. 



Old world, on time's benighted stream 
Sweep down till the stars of morning beam 
From orient shores — nor break the dream 

That calms my love to pleasure deep ; 
Roll on, and give my Bud and Rose 
The fulness of thy best repose, 
The blessedness which only flows 

Along the silent realms of Sleep. 



THE LIGHT OF OUR HOME. 



Oh, thou whose beauty on us beams 
With glimpses of celestial light ; 

Thou halo of our waking dreams, 

And early star that crown' st our night j 

Thy light is magic where it falls ; 

To thee the deepest shadow yields j 
Thou bring'st unto these dreary halls 

The lustre of the summer-fields. 

(48) 



THE LIGHT OF OUR HOME. 49 

There is a freedom in thy looks 

To make the prisoned heart rejoice j — 

In thy blue eyes I see the brooks, 
And hear their music in thy voice. 

And every sweetest bird that sings 

Hath poured a charm upon thy tongue ; 

And where the bee enamoured clings, 
There surely thou in love hast clung ; — 

For when I hear thy laughter free, 

And see thy morning-lighted hair, 
As in a dream at once I see 

Fair upland realms and valleys fair. 

I see thy feet empearled with dews, 

The violet's and the lily's loss; 
And where the waving woodland woos 

Thou lead'st me over beds of moss ; — 

And by the busy runnel's side, 

Whose waters, like a bird afraid, 
Dart from their fount, and flashing, glide 

Athwart the sunshine and the shade. 



50 THE LIGHT OF OUR HOME. 

Or larger streams our steps beguile j — 
We see the cascade, broad aud fair, 

Dashed headlong down to foam, the while 
Its iris-spirit leaps to air ! 

Alas ! as by a loud alarm, 

The fancied turmoil of the falls 

Hath driven me back and broke the charm - 
Which led me from these alien walls : — 



Yes, alien, dearest child, are these 
Close city walls to thee and me : 

My homestead was embowered with trees, 
And such thy heritage should be : — 

And shall be ; — I will make for thee 

A home within my native vale, 
Where every brook and ancient tree 
Shall whisper some long-treasured tale. 

Now once again I see thee stand, 
As down the future years I gaze, 

The fairest maiden of the land, 
The spirit of those sylvan ways. 



THE LIGHT OP OUR HOME. 51 

And in thy looks again I trace 

The light of her who gave thee birth ; 

She who endowed thy form and face 
With glory which is not of Earth. 

And as I gaze upon her now, 

My heart sends up a prayer for thee, 

That thou mayest wear upon thy brow 
The light which now she beams on me. 



THE TWO DOVES. 



When the Spring's delightful store 

Brought the blue-birds to our bowers, 
And the poplar at the door 

Shook the fragrance from its flowers, 
Then there came two wedded doves, 

And they built among the limbs, 
And the murmur of their loves 

Fell like mellow, distant hymns ; 
There, until the Spring had flown, 

Did they sit and sing alone, 
In the broad and flowery branches. 

(52) 



THE TWO DOVES. 53 

With the scented Summer breeze 

How their music swam around, 
Till mj spirit sailed the seas 

Of enchanted realms of sound ! 
" Soul/' said I, " thy dream of youth 

Is not fancy, nor deceives, 
For I hear Love's blissful truth 

Prophesied among the leaves ; 
Therefore till the Summer's flown 

Sit and sing, but not alone, 
In the broad and flowery branches. " 



Then the harvest came and went, 

And the Autumn marshalled down 
All his host, and spread his tent 

Over fields and forests brown ; 
Then the doves, one evening, hied 

To their old accustomed nest ; 
One went up, but drooped and died, 

With an arrow in its breast — 
Died and dropped ; while there, alone, 

Sat the other, making moan, 
In the broad and withering branches. 



5* 



54 THE TWO DOVES. 

There it sat and mourned its mate, 

With a never-ending moan, 
Till I thought perchance its fate 

Was prophetic of my own : 
And at each lament I heard, 

How the tears sprang to my eyes ! 
! I could have clasped the bird, 

And communed with it in sighs ; 
But it drooped — and with a moan, 

Closed its eyes, and there, alone, 
Dropped from out the leafless branches. 



I beheld it on the ground, 

Press the brown leaves, cold and dead, 
And my brain went round and round, 

And I clasped my throbbing head, 
While thus spake a voice of Love : 

" Rise, thou timid spirit, rise ! 
Earth has claimed the fallen dove — 

But thy soul shall cleave the skies ; 
While the angel, earlier flown, 

Shall sit waiting thee, alone, 
In the green eternal branches !" 



SOLEMN VOICES. 



I heard from out the dreary realms of Sorrow 
The various tongues of Woe : — 

One said, " Is there a hope in tho to-morrow f" 
And many answered, " No !" 

And they arose and mingled their loud voices, 

And cried in bitter breath, 
" In all our joys the Past alone rejoices, — 

There is no joy but Death. 

" Oh dreadful Past, beyond thy midnight portal 

Thou hast usurped our peace ; 
And if the angel Memory be immortal, 

When shall this anguish cease f" 

(55) 



56 SOLEMN VOICES. 

And suddenly within the darkened distance 

The solemn Past replied, 
"In my domains your joys have no existence, 

Your hopes they have not died ! 

" Nought comes to me except those ghosts detested 

Phantoms of Wrong and Pain ; 
But whatso'er Affection hath invested, 

Th' eternal years retain. 

"Then stand no more with looks and souls dejected, 

To woo and win despair, 
The joys ye mourn the Future hath collected, 
Your hopes are gathered there. 

"And as the dew which leaves the morning flowers 

Augments the after rain, — 
And as the blooms which fall from summer bowers, 

Are multiplied again, — 

"So shall the joys the Future holds in keeping, 

Augment your after peace ; 
So shall your hopes, which now are only sleeping, 

Return with large increase." 



SOME THINGS LOVE ME. 



All within and all without me 

Feel a melancholy thrill ; 
And the darkness hangs about me, 

Oh, how still; 
To my feet, the river glideth 

Through the shadow, sullen, dark ; 
On the stream the white moon rideth, 

Like a barque — 
And the linden leans above me, 

Till I think some things there be 
In this dreary world that love me, 

Even me ! 

\ (57) 



58 SOME THINGS LOVE ME. 

Gentle buds are blooming near me, 

Shedding sweetest breath around ; 
Countless voices rise, to cheer me, 

From the ground; 
And the lone bird comes — I hear it 

In the tall and windy pine 
Pour the sadness of its spirit 

Into mine ; 
There it swings and sings above me, 

Till I think some things there be 
In this dreary world that love me, 

Even me ! 

Now the moon hath floated to me, 

On the stream I see it sway, 
Swinging, boat-like, as 't would woo me 

Far away — 
And the stars bend from the azure, 

I could reach them where I lie, 
And they whisper all the pleasure 

Of the sky. 
There they hang and smile above me, 

Till I think some things there be 
In the very heavens that love me, 

Even me ! 



SOME THINGS LOVE ME. 59 

Now when comes the tide of even, 

Like a solemn river slow, 
Gentle eyes akin to heaven 

On me glow — 
Loving eyes, that tell their story, 

Speaking to my heart of hearts ; 
But I sigh : a thing of glory 

Soon departs. 
Yet, when Mary soars above me, 

I must think that there will be 
One star more in heaven to love me — 

Even me ! 



PASSING THE ICEBERGS. 



A fearless shape of brave device, 

Our vessel drives through mist and rain, 

Between the floating fleets of ice — 
The navies of the northern main. 

These arctic ventures, "blindly hurled, 
The proofs of Nature's olden force, — 

Like fragments of a crystal world 
Long shattered from its skiey course. 

These are the buccaneers that fright 

The middle sea with dream of wrecks, 

And freeze the south winds in their flight, 

And chain the Gulf-stream to their decks. 

(60) 



PASSING THE ICEBERGS. 61 

At every dragon prow and helm 

There stands some Viking as of yore ; 

Grim heroes from the boreal realm 
Where Odin rules the spectral shore. 

And oft beneath the sun or moon 

Their swift and eager falchions glow — 

While, like a storm-vexed wind, the rune 
Comes chafing through some beard of snow. 

And when the far North flashes up 

With fires of mingled red and gold, 
They know that many a blazing cup 

Is brimming to the absent bold. 

Up signal there, and let us hail 

Yon looming phantom as we pass ! — 

Note all her fashion, hull, and sail, 
Within the compass of your glass. 

See at her mast the steadfast glow 

Of that one star of Odin's throne; 

Up with our flag, and let us show 

The Constellation on our own. 
G 



62 PASSING THE ICEBERGS. 

And speak her well;' for she might say, 
If from her heart the words could thaw, 

Great news from some far frozen bay, 
Or the remotest Esquimaux. 

Might tell of channels yet untold, 
That sweep the pole from sea to sea ; 

Of lands which Grod designs to hold 
A mighty people yet to be : — 

Of wonders which alone prevail 

Where day and darkness dimly meet ; — 

Of all which spreads the arctic sail ; 
Of Franklin and his venturous fleet : 



How, haply, at some glorious goal 

His anchor holds — his sails are furled ; 

That Fame has named him on her scroll, 
" Columbus of the Polar World." 



Or how his ploughing barques wedge on 

Through splintering fields, with battered shares, 

Lit only by that spectral dawn, 

The mask that mocking darkness wears ; — 



PASSING THE ICEBERGS. 63 

Or how, o'er embers black and few, 
The last of shivered masts and spars, 

He sits amid his frozen crew 

In council with the norland stars. 



No answer — but the sullen flow 

Of ocean heaving long and vast : — 

An argosy of ice and snow, 

The voiceless North swings proudly past. 



CHRISTINE. 



Supposed to be related by a young sculptor on tlie Mil-side 
between Florence and Fiesole. 



Come, my friend, and in the silence and the shadow 

wrapt apart, 
I will loose the golden claspings of this sacred tome — 

the heart. 



By the bole of yonder cedar, under branches spread 

like eaves, 

We will sit where wavering sunshine weaves romance 

among the leaves. 

(64) 



CHRISTINE. 65 

There by gentle airs of story shall our dreamy minds be 

swayed, 
And our spirits hang vibrating like the sunshine "with 

the shade. 

Thou shalt sit, and leaning o'er me, calmly look into 

I my heart, 

Look ' as Fiesole above us looketh on Val d' Arno's * 
mart : — 

I 

Shalt behold how Love's fair river down the golden 

city goes, 
As the silent stream of Arno through the streets of 

Florence flows. 

I was standing o'er the marble, in the twilight falling 

All my hopes and all my courage waning from me like 
the day : 

There I leaned across the statue, heaving many a sigh 

and groan, 
For I deemed the world as heartless, aye, as heartless as 

the stone ! 
6* 



66 CHRISTINE. 

Nay, I well nigh thought the marble was a portion of 

my pain, 
For it seemed a frozen sorrow just without my burning 

brain. 



Then a cold and deathlike stupor slowly crept along my 

frame, 
While my life seemed passing outward, like a pale 

reluctant flame. 

Then my weary soul went from me, and it walked the 

world alone, 
O'er a wide and brazen desert, in a hot and brazen 



There it walked and trailed its pinions, slowly trailed 

them in the sands, 
With its hopeless eyes fixed blindly, with its hopeless 

folded hands. 

And there came no morn, — no evening with its gentle 

stars and moon, 
But the sun amid the heavens made a broad unbroken 

noon. 



CHRISTINE. 67 

And anon far reaching westward, with its weight of 

burning air. 
Lay an old and desolate ocean with a dead and glassy 

stare. 



There my spirit wandered gazing, for the goal no time 

might reach, 
With its weary feet unsandalled on the hard and heated 

beach. 

This it is to feel uncared for, like a useless waj r side 

stone, 
This it is to walk in spirit through the desolate world 

alone ! 



Still I leaned across the marble, and a hand was on my 

arm, 
And my soul came back unto me as 'twere summoned by 

a charm : 



While a voice in gentlest whisper, breathed my name 

into my ear, 
" Ah, Andrea, why this silence, why this shadow and 

this tear ?" 



G8 CHRISTINE. 

Then I felt that I had wronged her, though I knew it 

not before ; 
I had feared that she would scorn me if I told the love 

I bore. 



I had seen her, spoken to her, only twice or thrice per- 
chance ; 

And her mien was fine and stately, and all heaven was in 
her glance. 

She had praised my humble labours, the conception and 

the art, — 
She had said a thing of beauty nestled ever to her 

heart. 

And I thought one pleasant morning when our eyes 

together met, 
That her orbs in dewy splendour dropt beneath their 

fringe of jet. 

I 
I 

Though her form and air were noble, yet a simple dress 

she wore, 
Like yon maiden by the cypress, which the vines are 

weeping o'er. 



cnmsTiNE. 60 

And she came all unattended, — her protection in her 

mien ; 
And with somewhat of reluctance bade me call her name 

Christine. 

Then that name became a music, and my dreams went to 

the time, 
And my brain all day made verses, and her beauty filled 

the rhyme. 

Never dreamed I that she loved me, but I felt it now the 

more ; 
For her hand was laid upon me, and her eyes were 

brimming o'er. 



Oh, she looked into my spirit, as the stars look in the 

stream, 
Or as azure eyes of angels calm the trouble of a 

dream. 



Then I told my love unto her, and her sighs came deep 

and long — 
So yon peasant plays the measure, while the other leads 

the song. 



70 CHRISTINE. 

Then with tender words we parted, only as true lovers 

can; 
I for that deep love she bore me was a braver, better 

man. 



I had lived unloved of any, only loving Art before ; 
Now I thought all things did love me, and I loved all 
things the more. 

I had lived accursed of Fortune, lived in penury worse 

than pain; 
But, when all the heaven was blackest, down it showered 

in golden rain. 



I was summoned to the palace, to the presence of the 

Duke, 
Feeling hopes arise within me that no grandeur could 

rebuke. 



Down he kindly came to meet me, but I thought the 

golden throne 
Upon which my love had raised me, was not lower than 

his own. 



CHRISTINE. 71 

Then he grasped my hand with fervour, and I gave as 

warm return, 
For I felt a noble nature in my very fingers burn. 



And I would not bow below him, if I could not rise 

above, 
For I felt within my bosom all the majesty of Love. 

" Sir," said he, "your fame has reached me, and I fain 

would test your skill — 
Carve me something, Signior; follow the free fancy of 

your will. 



Carve me something — an Apollo, or a Dian with her 

hounds ; 
Or Adonis, dying, watching the young life flow from his 

wounds ; — 



Or a dreamy-lidded Psyche, with her Cupid on her 

knee ; 
Or a flying fretted Daphne, taking refuge in the tree. 



( '1 CHRISTINE. 

But I will not dictate, Siguier ; I can trust your taste 

and skill — 
In the ancient armoured chamber you may carve me what 

you will." 

Then I thanked him as he left me — and I walked the 

armoured hall — 
Even I, so late neglected, walked within the palace 

wall. 



There were many suits of armour, some with battered 

' breasts and casques ; 
And I thought the ancestral phantoms smiled upon me 
from their masks. 



And my footsteps were elastic with an energy divine — 
Never in those breasts of iron beat a heart as proud as 
mine ! 



There for days I walked the chamber with a spirit all 

inflamed, 
And I thought on all the subjects which the generous 

Duke had named — 



CHRISTINE. 73 

Thought of those, and thought of others, slowly thought 

them o'er and o'er, 
'fill my stormy brain went throbbing like the surf along 

the shore. 



In despair I left the palace, sought my humble room 

again, 
And my gentle Christine met me, and she smiled away 

my pain. 

" Courage I" said she, and my courage leapt within me 

as she spake, 
And my soul was sworn to trial and to triumph for her 

sake. 

Who shall say that love is idle, or a weight upon the 

mind ? 
Friend ! the soul that dares to scorn it, hath in idle dust 

reclined. 

I returned, and in the chamber piled the shapeless 

Adam- earth; 
Piled it carelessly, not knowing to what form it might 

give birth. 

7 



74 CHRISTINE. 

There I leaned, and dreamed, above it, till the day went 

down the west, 
And the darkness came unto me like an old familiar 

guest. 

But I started, for a rustle swept athwart the solemn 

gloom ! 
And with light, like morn's horizon, gleamed the far end 

of the room ! 

Then a heavy sea of curtain, in a tempest rolled 

away ! 
Blessed Virgin ! how I trembled ! but it was not with 

dismay. 

And my eyes grew large and larger, as I looked with 

lips apart ; 
And my senses drank in beauty, till it drowned my 

happy heart. 

There it stood, a living statue ! with its loosened locks 

of brown — 
In an attitude angelic, with the folded hands dropt 

down. 



CHRISTINE. 75 

But I could not see the features, for a veil was hanging 

there, 
Yet so thin, that o'er the forehead I could trace the 

shadowy hair. 

Then the veil became a trouble, and I wished that it 

were gone, 
And I spake, 't was but a whisper, " Let thy features on 

me dawn !" 

Then the heavy sea of drapery stormed again across my 

Bight, 
Leaving me appalled with wonder, breathless in the 

sudden night. 



But for days, where'er I turned me, still that blessed 
form was there, 

As one lookcth to the sunlight, then beholds it every- 
where. 

Then for days and days I laboured, with a soul in courage 

mailed ; 
And I wrought the nameless statue ; but, alas ! the face 

was veiled. 



76 CnRISTINE. 

I had tried all forms of feature — every face of classic 

art- 
Still the veil was there — I felt it — in my brain, and in 

my heart ! 



Sorrowing, I left the palace, and again I met Christine, 
And she trembled as I told her of the vision I had 
seen. 



And she sighed, "Ah, dear Andrea," while she clung 

unto my breast, 
" What if this should prove a phantom, something fearful 

and unblest — 



Something which shall pass between us?" and she 

clasped me with her arm ; 
"Nay," I answered, "love, Til test it with a most 

angelic charm. 



Let me gaze upon thy features, love, and fear not for 

the rest ; 
They shall exorcise the spirit if it be a thing unblest !" 



CHRISTINE. 77 

Then I hurried to the statue, where so often I had 

failed, 
And I made the face of Christine, and it stood no longer 

veiled ! 



With a flush upon my forehead, then I called the Duke — 

he came, 
And in rustling silks beside him walked his tall and 

stately dame ; 

And they looked upon the statue — then on me with 

stern surprise; 
Then they looked upon each other with a wonder in their 

eyes ! 



" What is this V spake out the Duchess, with her gaze 

fixed on the Duke ; 
" What is this ?" and me he questioned in a tone of sharp 

rebuke. 

Like a miserable echo, I the question asked again — 
And he said, " It is our daughter ! your presumption for 

your pain I" 

7* 



78 CHRISTINE. 

But asudden from the curtain, in her jewelled dress 

complete. 
Swept a maiden in her beauty, and she dropped before 

his feet — 



And she cried, " ! father — mother, cast aside that 

frowning mien ; 
And forgive my own Andrea, and forgive your child 

Christine ! 



! forgive us : for, believe me, all the fault was mine 

alone V 
And they granted her petition, and they blessed us as 

their own. 



THE FAIRER LAND. 



All the night, in broken slumber, 
I went down the world of dreams, 

Through a land of war and turmoil 
Swept by loud and labouring streams, 

Where the' masters wandered, chanting 
Ponderous and tumultuous themes. 



Chanting from unwieldy volumes 

Iron maxims stern and stark, 
Truths that swept, and burst, and stumbled 

Through the ancient rifted dark j 

Till my soul was tossed and worried, 

Like a tempest-driven bark. 

(79) 



80 THE FAIRER LAND. 

But anon, within the distance, 
Stood the village vanes aflame, 

And the sunshine, filled with music, 
To my oriel casement came ; 

While the birds sang pleasant valentines 
Against my window frame. 



Then by sights and sounds invited, 
I went down to meet the morn, 

Saw the trailing mists roll inland 
Over rustling fields of corn, 

And from quiet hillside hamlets 
Heard the distant rustic horn. 



There, through daisied dales and byways, 

Met I forms of fairer mould, 
Pouring songs for very pleasure — 

Songs their hearts could not withhold — 
Setting all the birds a-singing 

With their delicate harps of gold. 



Some went plucking little lily-bells, 
That withered in the hand ; 



THE FAIRER LAND. 81 

Some, where smiled a summer ocean, 

Gathered pebbles from the sand ; 
Some, with prophet eyes uplifted, 

Walked unconscious of the land. 



Through that Fairer World I wandered 
Slowly, listening oft and long, 

And as one behind the reapers, 
Without any thought of wrong, 

Loitered, gleaning for my garner 
Flowery sheaves of sweetest song. 



ARISE 



The shadow of the midnight hours 

Falls like a mantle round my form ; 
And all the stars, like autumn flowers, 

Are banished by the whirling storm. 
The demon-clouds throughout the sky 

Are dancing in their strange delight, 
While winds unwearied play ; — but I 

Am weary of the night. 

Then rise, sweet maiden mine, arise, 

And dawn upon me with thine eyes. 

(82) 



ARISE. 83 



II. 



The linden, like a lover, stands 

And taps against thy window pane ; — 
The willow with its slender hands 

Is harping on the silver rain. 
I've watched thy gleaming taper die, 

And hope departed with the light — 
The winds unwearied play ; — but I 

Am weary of the night. 
Then rise, sweet maiden mine, arise, 
And dawn upon me with thine eyes. 

in. 

The gentle morning comes apace, 

And smiling bids the night depart ; 
Rise, maiden, with thy orient face, 

And smile the shadow from my heart ! 
The clouds of night affrighted fly — 

Yet darkness seals my longing sight — 
All nature gladly sings — while I 

Am weary of the night. 
Then rise, sweet maiden mine, arise, 
And dawn upon me with thine eyes. 



THE MAID OF LINDEN LANE. 



Little maiden, you may laugh 
That you see me wear a staff, 
But your laughter is the chaff 

From the melancholy grain. 
Through the shadows long and cool 
You are tripping down to school ; 
But your teacher's cloudy rule 
Only dulls the shining pool 

"With its loud and stormy rain. 



There's a higher lore to learn 

Than his knowledge can discern, 

There's a valley deep and dern 

In a desolate domain; 

(84) 



THE MAID OF LINDEN LANE. 85 

But for this he has no chart — 
Shallow science, shallow art ! 
Thither — oh, be still, my heart — 
One too many did depart 

From the halls of Linden Lane. 



I can teach you better things ; 
For I know the secret springs 
Where the spirit wells and sings 

Till it overflows the brain. 
Come, when eve is closing in, 
When the spiders gray begin, 
Like philosophers, to spin 
Misty tissues, vain and thin, 

Through the shades of Linden Lane. 

While you sit as in a trance, 

Where the moon-made shadows dance, 

From the distaff of Romance 

I will spin a silken skein : 
Down the misty years gone by 
I will turn your azure eye ; 
You shall see the changeful sky 
Falling dark or hanging high 

Over the halls of Linden Lane. 



86 THE MAID OF LINDEN LANE. 

Come, and sitting by the trees, 
Over long and level leas, 
Stretched between us and the seas, 

I can point the battle-plain : 
If the air comes from the shore 
"We may hear the billows roar; 
But oh ! never, never more 
Shall the wind come as of yore 

To the halls of Linden Lane. 



Those were weary days of woe, 
Ah ! yes, many years ago, 
When a cruel foreign foe 

Sent his fleets across the main. 
Though all this is in your books, 
There are countless words and looks, 
Which, like flowers in hidden nooks, 
Or the melody of brooks, 

There's no volume can retain. 



Come, and if the night be fair, 
And the moon be in the air, 
I can tell you when and where 
Walked a tender loving twain : 



THE MAID OF LINDEN LANE. 87 

Though it cannot be, alas ! 
Yet, as in a magic glass, 
We will sit and see them pass 
Through the long and rustling grass 
At the foot of Linden Lane. 



Yonder did they turn and go, 
Through the level lawn below, 
With a stately step and slow, 

And long shadows in their train : 
"Weaving dreams no thoughts could mar, 
Down they wandered long and far, 
Gazing toward the horizon's bar, 
On their love's appointed star 

Rising in the Lion's Mane. 

As across a summer sea, 
Love sailed o'er the quiet lea, 
Light as only love may be, 

Freighted with no care or pain. 
Such the night ; but with the morn 
Brayed the distant bugle-horn — 
Louder ! louder ! it was borne — 
Then were anxious faces worn 

In the halls of Linden Lane. 



88 THE MAID OP LINDEN LANE. 

"With the trumpet's nearer bray, 
Flashing but a league away, 
Saw we arms and banners gay 

Stretching far along the plain. 
Neighing answer to the call, 
Burst our chargers from the stall ; 
Mounted, here they leaped the wall, 
There the stream : while in the hall 

Eyes were dashed with sudden rain. 



Belted for the fiercest fight, 

And with swimming plume of white, 

Passed the lover out of sight 

With the hurrying hosts amain. 
Then the thunders of the gun 
On the shuddering breezes run, 
And the clouds o'erswept the sun, 
Till the heavens hung dark and dun 

Over the halls of Linden Lane. 



Few that joined the fiery fray 
Lived to tell how went the day; 
But that few could proudly say 
How the foe had fled the plain. 



THE MAID OF LINDEN LANE. 89 

Long the maiden's eyes did yearn 
For her cavalier's return; 
But she watched alone to learn 
That the valley deep and dern 
Was her desolate domain. 



Leave your books awhile apart ; 
For they cannot teach the heart ; 
Come, and I will show the chart 

Which shall make the mystery plain. 
I can tell you hidden things 
Which your knowledge never brings; 
For I know the secret springs 
Where the spirit wells and sings, 

Till it overflows the brain. 

Ah, yes, lightly sing and laugh — 

Half a child and woman half; 

But your laughter is the chaff 

From the melancholy grain ; 

And, ere many years shall fly, 

Age will dim your laughing eye, 

And like mc you'll totter by ; 

For remember, love, that I 

Was the Maid of Linden Lane. 
8* 



THE SWISS STREET-SINGER. 



Throw up the glassy casement wide, 

And fling the heavy blinds aside, 

To let the sunshine and the tide 

Of music through the chamber glide. 

Oh, list ! it is a maiden young, 

Who singeth in a foreign tongue ; 

She poureth songs in strangest guise, 

In words translated by her eyes. 

Come, youth and childhood, form the ring, 

And, maidens, from the window lean, 

To bid the exile Switzer sing, 

And strike the trembling tambourine I 

(00) 



THE SWISS STREET-SINGER. 91 

The glistening azure in her eye 

Hath something of her native sky ; 

The music of the rill and breeze 

Are mingled in her melodies j 

And in her form's tall graceful lines 

There's something of the mountain pines ; 

And, oh, believe her soul may glow 

As purely as the Alpine snow. 

Come, youth and childhood, form the ring, 
And, maidens, from the window lean, 
To bid the exile Switzer sing, 
And strike the trembling tambourine ! 

Oh, gaze not on her scornfully, 

For, gentle lady, like to thee, 

That wandering maiden well may be 

Acquaint with pain and misery, — 

And sad remembrance prompts the lay 

That telleth of the far away ; 

While wildly in her music swell 

The glory, name, and land of Tell ! 

Then, youth and childhood, form the ring, 
And, maidens, from the window lean, 
To bid the exile Switzer sing, 
And strike the trembling tambourine ! 



A LEAF FROM THE PAST. 



INSCRIBED TO HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 



With thee, dear friend, though far away, 
I walk, as on some vanished day, 
And all the past returns in beautiful array. 

With thee I still pace to and fro 
Along the airy portico, 
And gaze upon the flowers and river winding slow. 

And there, as in some fairy realm, 

I hear the sweet birds overwhelm 

The fainting air with music from the lofty elm. 

(92) 



A LEAF FROM THE PAST. 93 

And hear the winged winds, like bees, 
Go swarming in the tufted trees, 
Or dropping low away, o'erweighed -with melodies. 

We walk beneath the cedar's eaves, 
Where statued Ceres, with her sheaves, 
Stands sheltered in a bower of trailing vines and leaves. 

Or strolling by the garden fence, 
Drinking delight with every sense, 
We watch th' encamping sun throw up his golden tents. 

With thee I wander as of old, 
When fall the linden's leaves of gold, 
Or when old winter whitely mantles all the wold. 

As when the low salt marsh was mown, 
With thee I idly saunter down 
Between the long white village and the towered town. 



I see the sultry bridge and long, 
The river where the barges throng — 
The bridge and river made immortal in thy song. 



94 A LEAP FROM THE PAST. 

In dreams like these, of calm delight, 
I live again the wintry night, 
When all was dark without, but all within wa^s bright- 



When she, fit bride for such as thou, 
She with the quiet, queenly brow, 
Read from the minstrel's page with tuneful voice and low. 

Still in the crowd or quiet nook, 
I hear thy tone — behold thy look — 
Thou speakest with thine eyes as from a poet's book. 

I listen to thy cheering word, 
And sadness, like the affrighted bird, 
Flies fast, and flies afar, until it is unheard. 



ROSALIE 



A BALLAD. 



Full many dreamy summer days, 

Full many wakeful summer nights, 
Fair Ilosalic had walked the ways 

Wherein young Love delights. 

Love took her by the willing hand — 

And oft she kissed the smiling boy — 

He led her through his native land, 

The innocent fields of Joy. 

(95) 



96 ROSALIE. 

As oft the evening tryste was set, 
In cedarn grottoes far apart, 
That young and lovely maiden met 
The Minstrel of her heart. 



Then Time, like some celestial barque, 

With viewless sails and noiseless oars, 
Conveyed them through the starry dark 
Beyond the midnight shores. 

And once he sang enchanted words, 
In music fashioned to her choice, 
Until the many dreaming birds 

Learned beauty from his voice. 

He sang to her of charmed realms, 

Of streams and lakes discerned by chance, 
Of fleets, with golden prows and helms, 
Deep freighted with romance ; 

Of vales, of purple mountains far, 

With flowers below and stars above, 
And of all homelier things that are 
Made beautiful by Love ; 



ROSALIE. 97 

Of rural days, when harvest sheaves 

Along the heated uplands glow, 
Or when the forest mourns its leaves, 
And nests are full of snow. 

He sang how evil evermore 

Keeps ambush near our holiest ground, 
But how an angel guards the door 
Wherever Love is found. 

Even while he sang new flowers had bloomed, 

New stars looked through the river mist, 
And suddenly the moon illumed 
The temple of their tryste. 

And with those flowers he crowned her there, 
With vows which Time should not revoke; 
Then from the nearest bough his hair 
She bound with druid oak. 

Oh, moon and stars, oh, leaves and flowers, 
Ye heard their plighted accents then — 

And heard within those sacred bowers 
The tramp of arnit-d men ! 
9 



ROSALIE. 

Her father spake y his angry word 

The youth returned in keener heat ; 
But when replied the old man's sword, 
The youth lay at his feet. 

And as a dreamer breathless, weak, 

From some immeasured turret thrown, 
For very terror cannot shriek, 
Fair Kosalie dropt clown. 

They raised her in her drowning swoon, 

And placed her on a palfrey white; 
A statue, paler than the moon, 

They bore her through the night. 

Loud rang the many horses' hoofs, 

Like forging hammers, fast and full ; 
To her they seemed to tread on woofs 
Of deep and noiseless wool. 

And like a fated bridal flower, 

From some betrothed bosom blown, 
They bore her to her prison tower, 
And left her there alone. 



ROSALIE. 99 

And when the cool auroral air 

Had won her tangled dreams apart, 
She found the blossoms in her hair — 
Their memory in her heart. 

She rose and paced the chamber dim, 

And watched the dying moon and stars, 
Until the sun's broad burning rim 

Blazed through the lattice bars. 

About her face the warm light stole, 

And yet her eyes no radiance won ; 
For through the prison of her soul 

There streamed no mornins; sun. 

The day went by ; and o'er the vale 

She saw the rising river mist; 
And like a bride subdued and pale, 
Arrayed her for the tryste, 

In nuptial robes, long wrought by stealth, 

With opals looped, pearl-broidered hems : 
And at her waist a cinctured wealth 
Of rare ancestral gems. 



100 ROSALIE. 

The stars came out, and by degrees 
She heard a distant music swell, 
While through the intervening trees 
Sang the glad chapel bell. 

She heard her name, and knew the call : 

At once the noiseless door swung wide ; 
She passed the shadowy stair and hall — 
And One was at her side. 



One, whose dear voice had charmed her long, 

And wooed her spirit to delight, 
"With airs of wild unwritten song, 
On many a summer night. 

They passed the village hand-in-hand ! 

They gazed upon the minster towers, 
And heard behind a singing band 
Of maidens bearing flowers. 

Age blessed them as they gayly passed, 

And rosy children danced before, 
Until with trembling hearts at last 
They gained the chapel door. 



ROSALIE. 101 

But music in its triumph brings 

New courage unto old and young ; 
And with a rustle, as of wings, 
The choir arose and sung. 

And while the anthem, loud or low, 

Swung round them like a golden cloud, 
They walked the aisle, subdued and slow, 
And at the altar bowed. 

And sacred hands were o'er them spread, 
And blessings passed away in prayer ; 
And then the soul of music sped 

Once more throughout the air. 

It swelled and dropped and waned and 'rose, 

With flights for ever skyward given, 

Like birds whose pinions spread and close, 

And rise thereby to heaven. 

A murmur, like the soft desire 

Of leafy airs, went up the skies, 
And Rosalie beheld the choir 
On angel wings arise. 



102 ROSALIE. 

Bright angels all encompassed her, 

An angel in the altar stood, 
And all her train of maidens were 
A winged multitude. 

The chapel walls dissolved and swept 
Away, like mists when winds arise, 
For Rosalie that hour had kept 
Her tryste in Paradise. 



THE STRANGER ON THE SILL. 



Between broad fields of wheat and corn 
Is the lowly borne where I was born ; 
The peach-tree leans against the wall, 
And the woodbine wanders over all ; 
There is the shaded doorway still, 
But a stranger's foot has crossed the sill. 

There is the barn — and, as of yore, 

I can smell the hay from the open door, 

And see the busy swallow's throng, 

And hear the peewee's mournful song ; 

But the stranger comes — oh ! painful proof — 

His sheaves are piled to the heated roof. 

There is the orchard — the very trees 

Where my childhood knew long hours of ease, 

(103) 



104 THE STRANGER ON THE SILL. 

And watched the shadowy moments run 
Till my life imbibed more shade than sun : 
The swing from the bough still sweeps the air. 
But the stranger's children are swinging there. 

There bubbles the shady spring below, 

With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow ; 

'Twas there I found the calamus root, 

And watched the minnows poise and shoot. 

And heard the robin lave his wing : — 

But the stranger's bucket is at the spring. 

Oh, ye who daily cross the sill, 

Step lightly, for I love it still ; 

And when you crowd the old barn eaves, 

Then think what countless harvest sheaves 

Have passed within that scented door 

To gladden eyes that are no more. 

Deal kindly with these orchard trees ; 
And when your children crowd your knees, 
Their sweetest fruit they shall impart, 
As if old memories stirred their heart : 
To youthful sport still leave the swing, 
And^in sweet reverence hold the spring. 



ENDYMION. 



What time the stars first flocked into the blue 
Behind young Hesper, shepherd of the eve, 

Sleep bathed the fair boy's lids with charmed dew, 
Mid flowers that all day blossomed to receive 
Endymion. 

Lo ! where he lay encircled in his dream ; 

The moss was glad to pillow his soft hair, 
And toward him leaned the lily from the stream, 

The hanging vine waved wooing in the air 
Endymion. 

The brook that ercwhile won its easy way, 
O'errun with meadow grasses long and cool, 

Now reeled into a fuller tide and lay 

Caressing in its clear enamoured pool 

Endymion. 

(105) 



106 ENDYMION. 

And all the sweet, delicious airs that fan 
Enchanted gardens in their hour of bloom. 

Blown through the soft invisible pipes of Pan, 
"Breathed, 'mid their mingled music and perfume, 
Endymion. 

The silvery leaves that rustled in the light, 

Sent their winged shadows o'er his cheek entranced; 

The constellations wandered down the night, 

And whispered to the dew-drops where they danced, 
Endymion. 

Lo ! there he slept, and all his flock at will 

Went star-like down the meadow's azure mist; — 

What wonder that pale Dian with a thrill 

Breathed on his lips her sudden love, and kissed 
Endymion ! 



HAZEL DELL. 



From the early bells of morning, 
Till the evening chimes resound, 

In the busy world of labour, 
For my daily bread Fm bound, 

With no hopes of more possessions 
Than six scanty feet of ground ! 

But my soul hath found an empire, 
Hid between two sister hills, 

Where she dreams or roams at pleasure, 
Finding whatsoe'er she wills ; 

There sweet Hope her fairest promise 
With a lavish hand fulfils. 

(107) 



108 IIAZEL DELL. 

And the path that windeth thither, 
There's no mortal foot may tread, 

For it leads to charmed valleys, 
With enchanted blossoms spread, 

Under groves of flowering poplars, 
Through the violets' purple bed. 

Overveiled with vines and water, 
Dropt from many a hidden well, 

Are the rocks which make the gateway ;- 
And the water's silver bell, 

Keeps the warder, Silence, wakeful 
At the gate of Hazel Dell ! 

Nor may any pass the warder 
Till the watchword they repeat; 

They must go arrayed like angels, 
In their purity complete ] 

And the stave-supported pilgrim 
Lay the sandals from his feet ! 

And within the purple valley, 
Where perpetual summer teems, 

Whisper silken-tongued runnels, 
Melting into larger streams, 



HAZEL DELL. 109 

Winding round through sun and shadow, 
Like a gentle maiden's dreams. 

Then let labour hold me vassal, 
Since my soul can scorn his reign ! 

Even fetters for the body- 
Were but bands of sand, and vain, 

While the spirit thus can wander, 
Singing through its own domain ! 

In the long still hours of darkness, 
Stretched from weary chime to chime ; 

Thus beside my own Castalie 
I can gather flowers of rhyme, 

And with all their fresh dew freighted, 
Fling them on the stream of time ! 



10 



A GLIMPSE OF LOVE. 



She caine as comes the summer wind ; 

A gust of beauty to my heart ; 
Then swept away, but left behind 

Emotions which shall not depart. 



Unheralded she came and went, 

Like music in the silent night ; 

Which, when the burthened air is spent, 

Bequeaths to memory its delight j 

(110) 



A GLIMPSE Or LOVE. Ill 

Or, like the sudden April bow 

That spans the violet-waking rain : 
She bade those blessed flowers to grow 

Which may not fall or fade again. 

Far sweeter than all things most sweet, 
And fairer than all things most fair, 

She came and passed with footsteps fleet, 
A shining wonder in the air. 



LINES TO A BLIND GIRL. 



Blind as the song of birds, 

Feeling its way into the heart, — 

Or as a thought ere it hath words, — 
As blind thou art : — 

Or as a little stream 

A dainty hand might guide apart, 
Or Love — young Love's delicious dream, — 

As blind thou art : — 

Or as a slender bark, 

Where summer's varying breezes start — 

Or blossoms blowing in the dark, — 

As blind thou art : — 

(112) 



LINES TO A BLIND GIRL. 113 

Or as the Hope, Desire 

Leads from the bosom's crowded mart, 
Deluded Hope, that soon must tire, — 

As blind thou art : — 



The chrysalis that folds 

The wings that shall in light depart, 
Is not more blind than that which holds 

The wings within thy heart. 

For when thy soul was given 

Unto the earth, a beauteous trust, 

To guard its matchless glory, Heaven 
Endungeoned it in dust. 

10* 



A CALL FOR VOLUNTEERS. 



Whom God hath armed with shining truth, 
From wintered age to flowery youth, 

I charge ye, rise ! 
By every hope and every fear, 
And every tie which Tbinds ye near, 
By all which makes your homes most dear, 

I charge ye, rise ! 

For there is one who walks abroad, 

With bloody feet to mar the sod, 

And countless thresholds show to-day, 

Red prints which will not pass away ; 

And he hath laid but even now 

His hand upon the peaceful plough, 

And seized the scythe, with these to mow 

And furrow fields of gore ! 

(114) 



A CALL FOR VOLUNTEERS. 115 

Oh, rise, and call God's angel down, 
To blow the trump of peace, and drown 
This brazen din of war ! 



Who dig in earth's benighted caves, 
Or plough the old eternal waves, 

I charge ye, rise ! 
"Who walk within the city's crowd, 
Or climb the mountain to its cloud, 
Or till the lowlands, — poor or proud, 

I charge ye, rise ! 
Arise, and seize the flaming swords 
Emblazoned with those glorious words 
Which filled the night with blessed breath 
Above the Child of Nazareth ! 
Enrolled to wear the arms of right, 
Come with your banners broad and white, 
Nor weary till old Error's night 

Shall be no more ! 
Then God shall send his angel down, 
To blow the trump of peace, and drown 

The brazen din of war ! 



LOVE'S GALLERY. 



PICTURE FIRST. 

MIRIAM. 

Fair Miriam's was an ancient manse 

Upon the open plain : 
It looked to ocean's dim expanse, 
Saw miles of meadow pasture dance 

Beside the breezy main. 

A porch, with woodbines overgrown, 

Faced eastward to the shore ; 

While Autumn's sun, through foliage brown, 

'Twixt leaf and lattice flickered down 

To tesselate the floor, 

(116) 



love's gallery. 117 

There walked fair Miriam ; — as she stept 

A rustle thrilled the air j 
Rare, starry gems her tresses kept, 
While o'er her brow a crescent swept 

The darkness of her hair. 



But she too oft had paced the hall 

To ponder chronicles which Time 

Had given at many an interval — 

Ancestral shadows on the wall 

Looking their pride sublime. 

And she too well had learned their look, 
And wore upon her tender age 

A haughtiness I could not brook — 

I said, it is a glorious book, 

But dared not trust the page. 



PICTURE SECOND. 

EERTIIA. 

Mild Bertha's was a home withdrawn 
Beyond the city's din; 



118 love's gallery. 

Tall Lombard trees hemmed all the lawn 
And up the long straight walks, a dawn 
Of blossoms shone within. 

Along the pebble paths the maid 

Walked with the early hours, 
With careful hands the vines arrayed, 
And plucked the small intruding blade 
From formal plots of flowers. 

A statued Dian to the air 

Bequeathed its mellow light; 
She called the flying figure fair, 
The forward eyes and backward hair, 

And praised the marble's white. 

Her pulses coursed their quiet ways, 

From heart to brain controlled ; 
She read and praised in studied phrase 
The bards whom it were sin to praise 
In measured words and cold. 

I love the broad bright world of snow, 
And every strange device 



LOVE S GALLERY. 119 

Which makes the woods a frozen show, 
The rivers hard and still — but, oh, 
Ne'er loved a heart of ice. 



PICTURE THIRD. 

MELANIE. 

Within a dusky grove, where wound 

Great centenarian vines, 
Binding the shadows to the ground, 
The dark-eyed Mclanie was found 

Walking between the pines. 

A sudden night of hair was thrown 

About her shining neck; 
All woes she buried in her own — 
Her sea of sadness carried down 

All lighter thoughts to wreck. 

The past was hers ; the coming years 

No golden promise brought :- 
She gazed upon the midnight spheres 
To read her future ; and the tears 

Sprang vassals to her thought. 



120 love's* gallery. 

She heard all night through her domain 

The river moan below ; 
The whip-poor-will and owlet's strain 
Filled up the measure of her pain 

In streams of fancied woe. 

Thus as the mournful Melanie 

Swept through my waking dream, 
I said : Oh soul, still wander free, 
It is not written thou shalt see 

Thy image in this stream. 



PICTUKE FOURTH. 

AURELIA. 

Where flamed a field of flowers — and where 
Sang noisy birds and brooks — 

Aurelia to the frolic air 

Shook down her wanton waves of hair, 
With laughter-loving looks. 

Her large and lustrous eyes of blue, 

Dashed with the dew of mirth, 

Bequeathed to all their brilliant hue ; 

She saw no shades, nor even knew 

She walked the heavy earth. 



love's gallery. 121 

Her ringing laughter woke the dells 

When fell the autumn blight ; — 

She sang through all the rainy spells — 

For her the snow was full of bells 
Of music and delight. 



She swept on her bewildering way, 

By every pleasure kiss'd, — 

Making a mirth of night and day j 

A brook all sparkle and all spray, 
Dancing itself to mist. 

I love all bright and happy things, 

And joys which are not brief; 

All sights and sounds whence pleasure springs ; 

But weary of the harp whose strings 
Are never tuned to grief. 



PICTURE FIFTH. 



AMY. 



Bound Amy's home were pleasant trees- 
A quiet summer space 



11 



122 love's gallery. 

Of garden flowers. and toiling bees; 
Below the yellow harvest leas 

"Waved welcome to the place. 

And Amy she was very fair, 

With eyes nor dark nor blue ; 
And in her wavy chestnut hair 
Were braided blossoms, wild and rare, 

Still shimmering with the dew. 

Her pride was the unconscious guise 

Which to the pure is given : 
Her gentle prudence broke to sighs, 
And smiles were native to her eyes, 
As are the stars to heaven. 

Here love, said I, thy rest shall be, 

Oh, weary, world-worn soul ! 
Long tossed upon this shifting sea, 
Behold, at last the shore for thee 

Displays the shining goal. 

Dear Amy, lean above me now, 

And smooth aside my hair, 
And bless me with thy tender vow, 
And kiss all memories from my brow, 
Till thou alone art there. 



THE MINERS. 



Burrow, burrow, like the mole, 

Ye who shape the columned caves ! 

Ye are black with clinging coal, 

Black as fiery Afric's slaves ! 

Sink the shadowy shaft afar 

Deep into our native star ! 

Bend her iron ribs apart, 

Where her hidden treasures are, 

Nestled near her burning heart ! 

Dig, nor think how forests grow 

Above your heads — how waters flow 

Responsive to the song of birds — 

How blossoms paint in silent words 

What hearts may feel but cannot know ! 

(123) 



124 THE MINERS. 

Dig ye, where no day is seen ; 
Vassals in the train of Night, 
Build the chambers for your Queen, 
Where with starless locks she lies, 
Robbed of all her bright disguise ! 
There no precious dews alight, 
None but what the cavern weeps, 
Down its scarred and dusky face ! 
There's no bird in all the place ; 
Not a simple flower ye mark, 
Not a shrub or vine that creeps 
Through the long, long Lapland dark ! 
Burrow, burrow, like the mole, 
Dark of face, but bright of soul ! 
Labour is not mean or low ! 
Ye achieve, with every blow, 
Something higher than ye know ! 
Though your sight may not extend 
Through your labours to the end, 
Every honest stroke ye give, 
Every peril that ye brave 
In the dark and dangerous cave, 
In some future good shall live ! 



THE WINNOWER. 



Sings a maiden by a river, 

Sings and sighs alternately ; 
In my heart shall flow for ever, 

Like a stream, her melody. 
In her hair of flaxen hue 

Tend'rcst buds and blossoms gleam; 
And her beauty glows as through 

Hazy splendours of a dream. 

Like her melody's rich bars — 

Or a golden flood of stars, — 

Rustling like a summer rain, 

Through her fingers falls the grain, 
11* (123) 



126 THE WINNOWER. 

Swells her voice in such sweet measure 
I must join for very pleasure; 
But my lay shall be of her, 
Bright and lovely Winnower ! 

When her song to laughter merges, 

Melts the music of her tongue, 
Like a streamlet's silver surges 

Over golden pebbles flung. 
From her hands the grainless chaff 

On the light wind dances free; 
But a sigh will check her laugh, — 

" So much worthlessness, ah me, 
Mingles with the good V saith she. 
Yet the grain is fair to see. 
Laughter, like some sweet surprise, 
Lights again her dewy eyes, 
And her song hath drowned her sighs; 
Therefore will I sing of her, 
Bright and lovely Winnower ! 

Down beside as fair a river 

Sings the Maiden Poesy, 
In my heart shall flow for ever 

Her undying melody. 



THE WINNOWER. 127 

Through her rosy fingers fall 

Golden grains of richest thought ; 
While the grainless chaff is all 

By the scattering breezes caught : — 

So much worthlessness, ah me, 

Mingles with the good I" saith she. 
Yet the grain is bright to see, 
Therefore laughs she merrily ! 
Laughs and sings in such sweet measure, 
I must join for very pleasure — 
While my heart keeps time with her, 
I will praise the Winnower ! 



FRAGMENTS FROM THE REALM OF 
DREAMS. 



" The baseless fabric of a -vision." 



Oet have I wandered through the Realm of Dreams, 

By shadowy mountains and clear running streams, 

Catching at times strange transitory gleams 

Of Eden vistas, glimmering through a haze 

Of floral splendour, where the birds, ahlaze 

With colour, streaked the air like flying stars, 

With momentary bars ; 

And heard low music breathe above, around, 

As if the air within itself made sound, — 

As if the soul of Melody were pent 

Within some unseen instrument 

(1281 



THE REALM OF DREAMS. 129 

Hung in a viewless tower of air, 

And with enchanted pipes beguiled its own despair. 

But stranger than all other dreams which led, 

Asleep or waking, my adventurous tread, 

"Were these which came of late to me 

Through fields of slumber, and did seem to be 

"Wrapped in an awful robe of prophecy. 



I walked the woods of March, and through the boughs 

The earliest bird was calling to his spouse ; 

And in the sheltered nooks 

Lay spots of snow, 

Or with a noiseless flow 

Stole down into the brooks; 

And where the springtime sun had longest shone 

The violet looked up and found itself alone. 

Anon I came unto a noisy river, 

And felt the bridge beneath me sway and quiver; 

Below, the hungry waters howled and hissed, 

And upward blew a blinding cloud of mist; 

But there the friendly Iris built its arch, 

And I in safety took my onward march. 

Now coming to a mighty hill, 

Along the shclvy pathway of a rill 



130 THE REALM OF DREAMS. 

Which danced itself to foam and spray, 

I clonib niy steady way. 

It may be that the music of the brook 

Gave me new strength — It may be that I took 

Fresh vigour from the mountain air 

Which cooled my cheek and fanned my hair ; 

Or was it that adown the breeze 

Came sounds of wondrous melodies, — 

Strange sounds as of a maiden's voice 

Making her mountain home rejoice? 

Following that sweet strain, I mounted still 

And gained the highest hemlocks of the hill, 

Old guardians of a little lake, which sent 

Adown the brook its crystal merriment, 

Blessing the valley where the planter went 

Sowing the furrowed mould and whistling his content. 

Through underwood of laurel, and across 

A little lawn shoe-deep with sweetest moss, 

I passed, and found the lake, which, like a shield 

Some giant long had ceased to wield, 

Lay with its edges sunk in sand and stone, 

With ancient roots and grasses overgrown ; 

But far more beautiful and rare 

Than any strange device that e'er 

Glittered upon the azure field 

Of ancient warrior's polished shield, 



THE REALM OE DREAMS. 131 

Was the fair vision -which did lie 

Embossed upon the burnished lake, 

And in its sweet repose did make 

A second self that sang to the inverted sky. 

Not she who lay on banks of Thornless flowers 

Ere stole the serpent into Eden's bowers; 

Not she who rose from Neptune's deep abodes, 

The wonder of Olympian Gods ; 

Nor all the fabled nymphs of wood or stream 

Which blest the Arcadian's dream, 

Could with that floating form compare, 

Lying with her golden harp and hair 

Bright as a cloud in the sunset air. 

Her tresses gleamed with many stars, 

And on her forehead one, like Mars, 

A lovely crown of light dispread 

Around her shining head. 

And now she touched her harp and sung 

Strange songs .in a forgotten tongue ; 

And as my spirit heard, it seemed 

To feel what it had lived or dreamed 

In other worlds beyond our skies, — 

In ancient spheres of Paradise ; 

And as I gazed upon her face, 

It seemed that I could dimly trace 



132 THE REALM OF DREAMS. 

Dear lineaments long lost of yore 

Upon some unremembered shore, 

Beyond an old and infinite sea, 

In the realm of an unknown century. 

For very joy I clapped my hands, 

And leaped upon the nearer sands ! — 

A moment, and the maiden glanced 

Upon me where I stood entranced ; 

Then noiselessly as moonshine falls 

Adown the ocean's crystal walls, 

And with no stir or wave attended, 

Slowly through the lake descended ; 

Till from her hidden form below 

The waters took a golden glow, 

As if the star which made her forehead bright 

Had burst and filled the lake with light ! 

Long standing there I watched in vain, — 

The vision would not rise again. 



Again, in sleep, I walked by singing streams, 

And it was May-day in my Eealm of Dreams :- 

The flowering pastures and the trees 

Were full of noisy birds and bees ; 

And swinging roses, like sweet censers, went, 

The village children making merriment, 



THE REALM OF DREAMS. lo< 

Followed by older people; — as they passed 
One beckoned, and I joined the last. 
We crossed the meadow, crossed the brook, 
And through the scented woodland took 
Our happy way, until we found 
An open space of vernal ground; 
And there around the flowery pole 
I joined the joyous throng and sang with all my soul ! 
But when the little ones had crowned their queen, 
And danced their mazes to the wooded scene 
To hunt the honeysuckles, and carouse 
Under the spice-wood boughs, — 
I turned, and saw with wondering eye 
A maiden in a bower near by 
Wreathed with unknown blossoms, such as bloom 
In orient isles with wonderful perfume. 
And she was very beautiful and bright ; 
And in her face was much of that strange light 
Which on the mountain lake had blessed my sight; 
Her speech was like the echo of that song 
Which on the hill-side made me strong. 
Now with a wreath, now with a coin she played, 
Pursuing a most marvellous trade — 
Buying the lives of young and old, 
Some with Fame, and some with gold ! 
12 



134 THE REALM OF DREAMS. 

And there with trembling steps I came, 

But ere I asked for gold or- fame, 

Or ere I could announce my name 

The wreath fell withered from her head, 

And from her face the mask was shed ; 

Her mantle dropped — and lo ! the morning sun 

Looked on me through a nameless skeleton ! 

Again I stood within the Kealm of Dreams, 

At midnight, on a huge and shadowy tower ; 

And from the east the full moon shed her beams, 

And from the sky a wild meteoric shower 

Startled the darkness; and the night 

Was full of ominous voices and strange light, 

Like to a madman's brain ; — below 

Prophetic tongues proclaiming woe 

Echoed the sullen roar 

Of Ocean on the neighbouring shore ; 

And in the west a forest caught the sound, 

And bore it to its utmost bound. 

And then, for hours, all stood as to behold 

Some great event by mighty seers foretold ; 

And all the while the moon above the sea 

Grew strangely large and red, — and suddenly, 

Followed by a myriad stars, 

Swung at one sweep into the western sky, 



THE REALM OF DREAMS. 135 

And, widening with a melancholy roar, 
Broke to a hundred flaming bars, 
Grating the heavens as with a dungeon door. 
Then to that burning gate 
A radiant spirit came, and through the grate 
Smiled till I knew the Angel, Fate ! 
And in its hand a golden key it bore 
To open that celestial door. 
Sure, I beheld that angel thrice ; 
Twice met on earth, it mocked me twice \ 
But now behind those bars it beamed 
Such love as I had never dreamed, 
Smiling my prisoned soul to peace 
With eyes that promised quick release; 
And looks thus spake to looks, where lips on earth were 
dumb, 

" Behold, behold the hour is come I" 



"COME, GENTLE TREMBLER." 



Come, gentle trembler, come — for see, 
Our hearths have lost their native fires ; 

The vacant world invites us, — we 

Must go the heirless heirs of countless sires. 

Let us away, the wild wolfs home 

Were not so desolate as ours ; 
Beside the singing brooks we'll roam, 

And seek a sweet community of flowers. 

Here are the dwellings whence the few 

We loved, departed ; where they lead 

We follow — these their tombs ; — but who 

Shall write our epitaphs, and who shall read ? 

(130) 



"come, gentle trembler." 137 

Hark, how the light winds flow and ebb 

Along the open halls forlorn ; 
See how the spider's dusty web 

Floats at the casement; tenantless and torn ! 

The old, old Sea, as one in tears, 

Comes murmuring with its foamy lips, 

And knocking at the vacant piers, 

Calls for its long-lost multitude of ships. 

Against the stone-ribbed wharf, one hull 
Throbs to its ruin like a breaking heart : 

Oh, come, my breast and brain are full 

Of sad response — Let Silence keep the mart ! 



]0 * 



THE FROZEN GOBLET. 



The night was dark, the winds were loud, 

The storm hung low in a swinging cloud ; 

The blaze on my chamber lamp was dim, 

And athwart my brain began to swm 

Those visions that only swim and sweep 

Under the wavering wings of sleep : — 

And suddenly into my presence came 

A Spectre, thin as that dismal flame 

That, burns and beams, a moving lamp, 

"Where the dreary fogs of night encamp. 

(138) 



THE FROZEN GOBLET. 139 

Her lips were pale, her cheeks were white, 
Her eyes were full of phantom light — 

Once, twice, thrice, 
A* goblet wrought to a rare device 
She held to fevered lips of mine ; 
But mocked them with its frozen wine, 
Till they were numb on the dusky ice. 

I could not speak, I could not stir, 

I could do nought but look at her; 

Nought but look in her wonderful eyes, 

And lose me in their mysteries. 

The goblet shone, the goblet glowed, 

But from its 'rim no liquid flowed. 

Its sides were bright with pictures rare 

Of demons foul and angels fair, 

And Life and Death o'er Youth contending, 

And Love on luminous wings descending, 

Celestial cities with golden domes, 

And caverns full of labouring gnomes. 

Once, twice, thrice, 
That goblet wrought to a rare device 
She held to fevered lips cf mine, 
But mocked them with its frozen wine, 
Till thoy were numb on the dusky ice. 



140 THE FROZEN GOBLET. 

Loud rang the bell through the stormy air, 

And the clock replied on the shadowy stair, 

And Chanticleer awoke and flung 

The echo from its silvery tongue. 

All nature with a sudden noise 

Proclaimed the momentary poise 

Of that invisible beam, that weighs 

At midnight the divided days. 

The Phantom beckoned and turned away, 

I had no power to speak or stay : — 

"We passed the dusky corridor, 

Her sandal gems illumed the floor, 

And with a ruddy, phosphor light, 

The frozen goblet lit the night. 

Once, twice, thrice, 
That goblet wrought to a rare device 
She held to fevered lips of miner, 
But mocked them with its frozen wine, 
Till they were numb on the dusky ice. 

She led me through enchanted woods, 
Through deep and haunted solitudes, 
By threatening cataracts, and the edges 
Of high and dizzy mountain ledges, 



THE FROZEN GOBLET." 141 

And over bleak and perilous ridges. 
To frail and air-suspended bridges, 
Where, in the muffled dark beneath, 
Invisible rivers talked of death, 
Until, for very sympathy 
With the unfathomed mystery, 
I cried, " Here I resign my breath, 
Here let me taste the cup of Death \" 

Once, twice, thrice, 
That goblet wrought to a rare device 
She held again to lips of mine, 
But mocked them with its frozen wine, 
Till they were numb on the dusky ice. 

And then a voice within me said, 
"Wouldst thou journey to the dead? — 
Shed this mantle, and pass for ever 
Into the black, eternal river ? — 
For very sympathy, depart 
From the tumult of this heart? 
Know'st thou not that mightier river, 
Rolling on in darkness ever, 
Ever sweepiug, coiling, boiling, 
Howling, fretting, wailing, toiling, 
Where every wave that breaks on shore 
Is a human heart that can bear no more V 9 



142 THE FROZEN GOELET. 

Once, twice} thrice, 
That goblet wrought to a rare device 
She held to fevered lips of mine, 
But mocked them with the frozen wine, 
Till they were numb on the dusky ice. 

And then in sorrow and shame I cried, 
" Oh, take me to that river's side, 
And I will shun the languid shore, 
And plunge me into the dark uproar, 
And drink of the waters till they impart 
A generous sense, and a human heart." 
And all at once, around me rose 
A mingled mutiny of woes, 
And my soul discerned these sounds to be 
The wail of a wide humanity ; 
Till my bosom heaved responsive sighs, 
And tremulous tears were in my eyes. 

Once, twice, thrice, 
That goblet wrought to a rare device 
She held to fevered lips of mine, 
And at their instant touch, the wine 
Flowed freely from the dusky ice. 

I drank new life, I could not stop, 
But drained it to its latest drop, 



THE FROZEN GOBLET. 143 

Till the Phantom with the goblet rare 

Dissolved into the shadowy air — 

Dissolved into the outer gloom, 

And once more I was in my room; 

Yet oft before my waking eyes 

The figures of that goblet rise — 

The angels and the fiends at strife, 

And Youth 'twixt warring Death and Life — 

The domes — the gnomes — mysterious things ! 

And Love descending on bright wings. 

Once, twice, thrice, 
That goblet wrought to a rare device 
Fair Memory holds to lips of mine, 
And bathes them with the sacred wine, 
The tribute of that dusky ice. 



THE CITY OF THE HEART. 



The heart is a city teeming with life — 

Through all its gay avenues ; rife 

With gladness 

And innocent madness, 

Bright beings are passing along, 

Too fleeting and fair for the eye to behold, 

While something of Paradise sweetens their song, 

They are gliding away with their wild gushing ditty, 

Out of the city, 

Out of the beautiful gates of gold ! 

<lte) 



THE CITY OP THE HEART. 145 

Through gates that are ringing 

While to and fro swinging, 
Swinging and ringing ceaselessly, 
Like delicate hands that are clapped in glee, 
Beautiful hands of infancy ! 



The heart is a city — and gay are the feet 

That dance along 

To the joyous beat 

Of the timbrel that giveth a pulse to song. 

Bright creatures enwreathed 

With flowers and mirth, 

Fair maidens bequeathed 

With the glory of earth 

Sweep through the long street, and singing await, 

A moment await at the wonderful gate j 

Every second of time there comes to depart 

Some form that no more shall revisit the heart ! 

They are gliding away and breathing farewell — 

How swiftly they pass 

Through the gates of brass, 

Through gates that arc ringing 

While to and fro swinging. 

And making deep sounds, like the half-stifled swell 

Of the far-away ring of a gay marriage bell ! 
13 



146 THE CITY OP THE HEART. 

The heart is a city with splendour bedight, 
Where tread martial armies arrayed for the fight, 

Under banner-hung arches, 

To war-kindling marches, 

To the fife and the rattle 
Of drums, with gay colours unfurled, 

On, eager for battle, 
To smite their bright spears on the spears of the 

world ! 
Through noontime, through midnight, list, and thou'lt 

hear 
The gates swing in front, then clang in the rear. 

Like a bright river flowing, 

The war host is going, 

And like to that river, 

Returning, ah never ! 
Through daylight and darkness low thunder is heard 

From the city that flings 

Her iron-wrought wings, 
Flapping the air like the wings of a bird ! 



The heart is a city — -how sadly and slow, 

To and fro, 
Covered with rust, the solemn gates go ! 



THE CITY OF THE HEART. 147 

With meek folded palms, 

With heads bending lowly, 

Strange beings pass slowly, 
Through the dull avenues chanting their psalms; 
Sighing and mourning, they follow the dead 
Out of the gates that fall heavy as lead — 
Passing, how sadly, with echoless tread, 

The last one is fled ! 
No more to be opened, the gates softly close, 
And shut in a stranger who loves the repose; 
With no sigh for the past, with no countenance of pity, 
He spreads his black flag o'er the desolate city ! 



THE BEGGAR OF NAPLES. 



The music of the marriage bell 

Woke all the morning air to pleasure, 

And breasts there were that rose and fell 

To the delightful measure. 

Oh, well it were if they might hear alway 

The music of their nuptial day 

Flowing, as o'er enchanted lakes and streams, 

Out of the land of dreams — • 

Sweet sounds that melt but never cease, 

Propped from celestial bells of peace. 

Oh, well it were if those rare bridal flowers 

Had drunken deep of life's perpetual dews, 

(148) 



THE BEGGAR OF NAPLES. 1-19 

Had drunken of those charmed showers 

For ever falling in ambrosial hues 

Through the far loving skies, 

Beyond the flaming walls of long-lost Paradise ; 

Or grown beside that fabled river 

Where it is spring-time ever ; 

Where, when the aged pilgrim stooped and drank, 

He rose again upon that primrose bank 

In all the bloom of youth to bloom for ever. 

Ah, well for Beauty's transient bowers 

If they might bud and blow in life's autumnal hours : — 

For she, who wore that bridal wreath 

Was Naples' noblest child j 

The fairest maid that e'er beguiled 

An Abbot of a prayerful breath. 

And he who rode beside her there 

Was Fame and Fortune's richest heir ; 

One who had come from foreign realms afar 

To dazzle like a new-discovered star. 

Yet as they passed between the crowd 

He looked not scornfully nor proud, 

But to the beggars thronging every side 

Scattered the golden coin in plenteous rain, 

And smiled to see their joy insane. 

And passing, thus addressed the bride : — 
13* 



150 THE BEGGAR OE NAPLES. 

" The merry lbells make music sweet. 

But never to the beggar's ear 

Fell music half so sweet and clear 

As the chime of gold when it strikes the street ; 

It drives their hearts to swifter swinging, 

And fills their brains with gladder ringing 

Than ever bells will swing or ring, 

Even though the sturdy sacristan 

Should labour the very best he can 

To chime for the wedding of a king. 

Such sights to me will always bring 

The story of a beggar, who 

Perchance has ofttimes begged of you ; 

And here the tale may well be told, 

To while away this idle gait 

That keeps us from our happy fate : 

For time is very lame and old 

Whene'er the surly graybeard brings 

A prayed-for pleasure on his wings ,• 

But robbing us of a joy can flee 

As fleet of foot as Mercury. 

" Avoiding every wintry shade, 
The lazzaroni crawled to sunny spots, — 
At every corner miserable knots 
Pursued their miserable trade ; 



THE BEGGAR OF NAPLES. 151 

And held the sunshine in their asking palms, 

Which gave unthanked its glowing alms. 

Thawing the blood until it ran 

As wine within a vintage runs. 

And there was one among that begging clan, 

One of Italians listless dreamy sons, 

A native Neapolitan — 

A boy whose checks had drawn their olive tan 

From fifteen summer suns. 

Long had he stood with naked feet 

Upon the lava of the street, 

With shadowy eyes cast down, 

Making neither a smile nor frown, 

And in the crowd he stood alono, 

Alone with empty hanging hands, 

And through his brain the idle dreams 

Slid down like idle sands; 

Or hung like mists o'er sleeping streams 

In uninhabitable lands. 

To him, I ween, the same, 

All seasons went and came 

Nor did ambition's pomp and show 

Disturb his fancy's tranquil flow ; 

For, like the blossom of the soil, 

Existence was his only toil. 



152 THE BEGGAR OF NAPLES. 

" One morn (the bells bad summoned all to mass) 

He knelt before the old cathedral door — 

At such a place the wealthier who pass 

"Will throw a pious pittance to the poor, 

Who kneel with face demure, 

With their mute eyes and hands saying their ' alas V 

Oh, beautiful it was to see him there, 

Looking his wordless prayer, 

"With solemn head depressed, 

And hands laid crosswise on his breast, — 

Such figures saw Murillo in his dream, 

The painter and the pride of Spain ; 

With such he made his living canvas gleam, 

As canvas touched by man may never gleam again. 

" Upon the beggar's heart the matin hymn 

Fell faint and dim 

As when upon some margin of the sea 

The fisher breathes the briny air, 

And hears the far waves' symphony, 

But hears it unaware. 

The music from the lofty aisle, 

And all the splendour of the sacred pile, — 

The pictures hung at intervals 

Like windows, giving from the walls 



THE BEGGAR OF NAPLES. 153 

Clear glimpses of the days agone, 

From that blest hour when over Bethlehem shone 

The shepherd's Star, until that darker time 

When groaned the earth aloud with agony sublime : — 

All were unheeded, 

And came, but as his breath ) 

Or if there came a thought, that thought unheeded 

Even in its birth met death. 

The names of Raphael, — Angelo, — Lorraine, — 

Da Vinci, — Roso, — Titian, — and the rest, 

Are sounds to thrill the Italian's soul and brain 

With all the impulse native to his breast ; 

And Dante, — Petrarch, — these are mighty names 

The meanest tongue with a true pride proclaims ; 

And Ariosto's song a loved bequest; 

And Tasso's sung by all — by all is loved and blest. 

But what cared he, the sunburnt beggar-boy ? 

All these bequeathed no other joy 

Than did the silent stars, 

Or morn or evening with their golden bars. 

Or the great azure arch of day, 

Or his own bright, unrivalled bay, 

Or old Vesuvius' deathless flames — 

And these to him alone were empty sights and names. 

" Few were there who did any alms bestow/ 
For few will hear accustomed sounds of woe ; 



154 THE BEGGAR OF NAPLES. 

Yet there was one among that few 

Who but a moment stopped. 

And in the beggar's hands the silver dropped, 

And shed the benediction of her smile. 

Such smile as hers might well renew 

A heart to its lost light, and might beguile 

The shadow of a mourner's hour ; 

Such smiles are like the blessed dew 

By evening shed upon a wayside flower, 

Sinking to the heart of hearts with a miraculous 

power. 
The earliest primrose of the spring, 
Which at the brook-side suddenly in sight 
Gleams like a water sprite ; 
And the first herald bird on southern wing, 
Chanting his wild, enthusiastic rhyme 
About the summer time — 
Wake in the soul an instant, deep delight ! 
But there are eyes whose first sweet look 
Outshines the primrose by the brook ; 
And there are lips whose simplest words 
Outrival even the spring-time birds. 
Ah, well, I ween, the beggar felt their power, 
And wore them in his heart from that bright hour. 
She passed — a maiden very young and fair, 
Of an illustrious house the pride and heir; 



THE BEGGAR OF NAPLES. 155 

She passed — but ah, she left 

The miserable boy bereft ! — 

Bereft of all that quiet which had lain 

Like a low mist within his brain, — 

The idle fogs of some rank weedy isle 

Hanging on the breezeless atmosphere, 

Over a miasmatic mere ; — 

All this the beauty of her smile 

Had blown into a storm that would not rest again- 

At once upstarting from his knees, 

He watched her as she went; 

The blood awakened from its slothful case, 

Through all his frame a flaming flood was sent. 

He stood as with a statue's fixed surprise, 

Great wonder making marble in his eyes ! 

She, like a morn, had dawned upon his soul ; 

And now he saw the marvellous whole 

Of that mysterious land, 

And felt a sense of awe as they who stand 

For the first time upon an alien strand, — 

Some sailor of a foreign sea, 

Who, from the smooth waves swinging lazily, 

Is thrown upon a shore 

Where life is full of noise and strife for evermore 

He stood awake ! and suddenly there burst 



153 THE BEGGAR OP NAPLES. 

The music of the organ on his brain, 

And into every sense athirst 

Dispensed a welcome rain. 

Now that his soul had passed from its eclipse, 

All things at once became a glorious show ; 

Now could he see the sainted pictures glow ; 

And instantly unto his lips 

Rolled fragments of old song — 

Fragments which had been thrown 

Into his heart unknown, 

And buried there had lain in silence deep and long. 

" He saw his fellows kneel where he had knelt 

"With tattered garb and supplicating air ; 

And for the first time in his life he felt 

Plow mean was his attire, and that his feet were bare. 

He sighed and bit his lips, and passed away ; 

And from that day, 

His fellows idly as before, 

Without a hope, without a care, 

Stood clustered in the sunny air, 

But there the beggar boy was seen no more. 

" His childhood, like a dry and sandy bar, 
Lay all behind him as he hurled 



THE BEGGAR OF NAPLES. 157 

His soul's hot bark to sea, and wide unfurled 

The straining sail upon a billowy world. 

And now he joined the sacred fleet afar, 

And 'mid tempestuous waves of war 

Defied the Saracen and Death, 

And won the warrior's laurel wreath, 

And gave his beggar name to Fame's industrious breath. 

" Years came and went, and no one missed the boy, 

Nor wept his long farewell; 

They little guessed how much their joy 

Was of his deeds to tell. 

And when he knew his native town 

Had learned to talk of his renown, 

The youth a bearded man returned; 

And more than for renown he yearned 

To see that blessed smile again 

Which erst made beauty in his brain, 

And ever in the van of war 

Had shown a most propitious star. 

He came, and she of whom he long had dreamed 

With hopes which nought could e'er destroy, 

In brighter beauty on him beamed, 

And blessed him with a deeper joy; 

Even she, the noblest lady of the land, 

Bestowed on him her virgin hand ! 
14 



158 THE BEGGAR OF NAPLES. 

Ah, sure it was the fairest alms 
That ever blessed a beggar's palms ! 

tl To him the chime which filled the skies 

Upon his nuptial morn, 

When down the loving breezes borne, 

Did seem to be by angels rung 

From silver bells of Paradise, 

In golden turrets hung. 

And she, who woke the boy to man, 

As little dreamed, I guess, as now, 

My gentle lady, as dost thou, 

How proud she was to wed that barefoot Neapolitan." 



THE BRICKMAKER. 



Let the blinded horse go round 
Till the yellow clay be ground, 
And no weary arms be folded 
Till the mass to brick be moulded. 

In no stately structures skilled, 
"What the temple we would build ? 
Now the massive kiln is risen — 
Call it palace — call it prison j 
View it well : from end to eud 
Narrow corridors extend, — 



(159) 



1G0 THE BRICKMAKER. 

Long, and dark, and smothered aisles 
Choke its earthly vaults with piles 

Of the resinous yellow pine ; 
Now thrust in the fettered fire — 
Hearken ! how he stamps with ire, 

Treading out the pitchy wine; 
Wrought anon to wilder spells 

Hear him shout his loud alarms ; 

See him thrust his glowing arms 
Through the windows of his cells. 

But his chains at last shall sever; 
Slavery lives not for ever ; 
And the thickest prison wall 
Into ruin yet must fall; 
Whatsoever falls away 
Springeth up again, they say ; 
Then, when this shall break asunder, 
And the fire be freed from under, 
Tell us what imperial thing 
From the ruin shall upspring? 

There shall grow a stately building, 
Airy dome and columned walls ; 

Mottoes writ in richest gilding 
Blazing through its pillared halls. 



THE BRICKMAKER. 161 

In those chambers, stern and dreaded, 
They, the mighty ones, shall stand ; 

There shall sit the hoary -headed 
Old defenders of the land. 



There shall mighty words be spoken, 
Which shall thrill a wondering world ; 

Then shall ancient bonds be broken, 
And new banners be unfurled. 



But anon those glorious uses 
In these chambers shall lie dead, 

And the world's antique abuses, 
Hydra-headed, rise instead. 

But this wrong not long shall linger- 
The old capitol must fall ; 

For, behold ! the fiery finger 
Flames along the fated wall ! 



II. 

Let the blinded horse go round 
Till the yellow clay be ground, 



14* 



162 TIIE BRICKMAKER. 

And no weary arms be folded 
Till the mass to brick be moulcled- 
Till the heavy walls be risen, 
And the fire is in his prison : 
But when break the walls asunder, 
And the fire is freed from under, 
Say again what stately thing 
From the ruin shall upspring ? 



There shall grow a church whose steeple 
To the heavens shall aspire; 

And shall come the mighty people 
To the music of the choir. 



On the infant, robed in whiteness, 
Shall baptismal waters fall, 

While the child's angelic brightness 
Sheds a halo over all. 



There shall stand en wreathed in marriage 
Forms that tremble — hearts that thrill — 

To the door Death's sable carriage 

Shall briog forms and hearts grown still ! 



THE BRICKMAKER. 163 

Decked in garments richly glistening, 
Rustling wealth shall walk the aisle ; 

And the poor without stand listening, 
Praying in their hearts the while. 



There the veteran shall come weekly 
With his cane, oppressed and poor, 

; Mid the horses standing meekly, 
Gazing through the open door. 



But these wrongs not long shall lingcr- 
The presumptuous pile must fall ; 

For, behold ! the fiery finger 
Flumes alontr the fated wall ! 



ill. 

Let the blinded horse go round 
Till the yellow clay be ground ; 
And no weary arms be folded 
Till the mass to brick be moulded- 
Say again what stately thing 
From the ruin shall upspring ? 



104 THE BRICKMAKER. 

Not the ball with columned chambers, 
Starred with words of liberty, 

Where the freedom-canting members 
Feel no impulse of the free ; 

Not the pile where souls in error 

Hear the words, " G-o, sin no more !" 

But a dusky thing of terror, 
With its cells and grated door. 

To its inmates each to-morrow 
Shall bring in no tide of joy. 

Born in darkness and in sorrow 
There shall stand the fated boy. 

With a grief too loud to smother, 
With a throbbing, burning head — 

There shall groan some desperate mother, 
Nor deny the stolen bread ! 

There the veteran, a poor debtor, 
Marked with honourable scars, 

Listening to some clanking fetter, 
Shall gaze idly through the bars : 



THE BRICKMAKER. 165 

Shall gaze idly, not demurring, 

Though with thick oppression bowed ; 

"While the many, doubly erring, 

Shall walk honoured through the crowd. 

Yet these wrongs not long shall linger — 

The benighted pile must fall j 
For, behold ! the fiery finger 

Flames along the fated wall ! 



IV. 

Let the blinded horse go round 
Till the yellow clay be ground ; 
And no weary arms be folded 
Till the mass to brick be moulded- 
Till the heavy walls be risen 
And the fire is in his prison. 
Capitol, and church, and jail, 
Like our kiln at last shall fail ; 
Every shape of earth shall fade ; 
But the Heavenly Temple made 
For the sorely tried and pure, 
With its Builder shall endure ! 



SONG FOR A SABBATH MORNING. 



Arise, ye nations, with rejoicing rise, 

And tell your gladness to the listening skies ; 

Come out forgetful of the week's turmoil, 

From halls of mirth and iron gates of toil ; 

Come forth, come forth, and let your joy increase 

Till one loud paean hails the day of peace. 

Sing, trembling age, ye youths and maidens sing ; 

Ring, ye sweet chimes, from every belfry ring; 

Pour the grand anthem till it soars and swells, 

And heaven seems full of great aerial bells ! 

(166) 



SONG FOR A SABBATH MORNING. 167 

Behold the Morn from orient chambers glide, 

With shining footsteps, like a radiant bride ; 

The gladdened brooks proclaim her on the hills, 

And every grove with choral welcome thrills. 

Rise, ye sweet maidens, strew her path with flowers, 

With sacred lilies from your virgin bowers ; 

Go, youths, and meet her with your olive boughs ; 

Go, age, and greet her with your holiest vows ; — 

See where she comes, her hands upon her breast, 

The sainted Sabbath comes, and smiles the world to rest. 



THE NAMELESS. 



Come fill, my merry friends, to-night, 

And let the winds unheeded blow, 
And we will wake the deep delight 

Which true hearts only know. 
And ere the passing wine he clone, 

Come drink to those most fair and dear, 
And I will pledge a cup to one 

Who shall be nameless here. 

Come fill, nor let the flagon stand, 

Till pleasure's voice shall drown the wind, 

Nor heed old Winter's stormy hand 
Which shakes the window-blind. 

And down the midnight hour shall run 
The brightest moments of the year ; 

While I will fill, my friends, to one 

Who shall be nameless here. 

(168) 



THE NAMELESS. 169 

Pledge you to lips that smile in sleep, 

Whose dreams have strewed your path with flowers, 
And to those sacred eyes that weep 

Whene'er your fortune lowers ; 
And charm the night, ere it be done, 

With names that are for ever dear, 
While I must pour and quaff to one 

Who shall be nameless here. 

To her I proudly poured the first 

Inspiring beaker of the Rhine, 
And still it floods my veins as erst 

It filled the German vine. 
And when her memory, like the sun, 

Shall widen down my dying year, 
My latest cup will be to one 

Who shall be nameless here. 



15 



TO WORDSWORTH. 



Thy rise was as the morning, glorious, bright ! 

And error vanished like the affrighted dark; — 

While many a soul, as the aspiring lark, 

Waked by thy dawn, soared singing to the light, 

Drowning in gladdest song the earth's despite ! 

And beauty blossomed in all lowly nooks — 

Love, like a river made of nameless brooks, 

Grew and exulted in thy wakening sight ! 

All nature hailed thee as a risen sun ; 

Nor will thy setting blur her thankful eyes ! 

While earth remains thy day shall not be done, 

Nor cloud dispread to blot thy matchless skies ! 

When Death's command, like Joshua's, shall arise, 

Thou'lt stand as stood the sun of Gibeon ! 

(170) 



A MORNING, BUT NO SUN. 



The morning comes, but brings no sun ; 

The sky with storm is overrun; 

And here I sit in my room alone, 

And feel, as I hear the tempest moan, 

Like one who hath lost the last and best, 

The dearest dweller from his breast ! 

For every pleasant sight and sound, 

The sorrows of the sky have drowned ; 

The bell within the neighbouring tower, 

Falls blurred and distant through the shower; 

(171) 



172 A MORNING, BUT NO SUN. 

Look where I will, hear what I may, 
All, all the world seems far away ! 
The dreary shutters creak and swing, 
The windy willows sway and fling 
A double portion of the rain 
Over the weeping window pane. 
But I, with gusty sorrow swayed, 
Sit hidden here, like one afraid, 
And would not on another throw 
One drop of all this weight of woe ! 



TO THE MASTER BARDS. 



Ye mighty masters of the song sublime, 

Who, phantom-like, with large unwavering eyes, 

Stalk down the solemn wilderness of Time, 

Reading the mysteries of the future skies \ 

Oh, scorn not earth because it is not heaven ; 

Nor shake the dust against us from your feet, 

Because we have rejected what was given ! 

Still let your tongues the wondrous theme repeat! 

Though ye be friendless in this solitude, 

Quick-winged thoughts, from many an unborn year, 

God-sent, shall feed ye with prophetic food, 

Like those blest birds which fed the ancient Seer ! 

And Inspiration, like a wheeled flame, 

Shall bear ye upward to eternal fame ! 

15* (173) 



«0H, WHEREFORE SIGH?" 



Oh, wherefore sigh for what is gone, 

Or deem the future all a night ? 
From darkness through the rosy dawn 

The stars go singing into light. 

And to the pilgrim lone and gray, 

One thought shall come to cheer his breast; — 
The evening sun but fades away 

To find new morning in the west. 

(174) 



THE WAY. 



A weary, wandering soul am I, 

O'erburthened with an earthly weight ; 

A pilgrim through the world and sky, 
Toward the Celestial Gate. 

Tell me, ye sweet and sinless flowers, 

Who all night gaze upon the skies, 

Have ye not in the silent hours 

Seen aught of Paradise ? 

(175) 



176 THE WAY. 

Ye birds, that soar and sing, elate 

With joy, that makes your voices strong, 

Have ye not at the golden gate 
Caught somewhat of your song ? 

Ye waters, sparkling in the morn, 
Ye seas, which glass the starry night, 

Have ye not from the imperial bourn 
Caught glimpses of its light ? 

Ye hermit oaks, and sentinel pines, 
Ye mountain forests, old and gray, 

In all your long and winding lines, 
Have ye not seen the way ? 

! moon, among thy starry bowers, 

Know'st thou the path the angels tread ? 
Seest thou beyond thy azure towers 
The shining gates dispread ? 

Ye holy spheres, that sang with earth, 
"When earth was still a sinless star, 

Have the immortals heavenly birth 
Within your realms afar ? 



THE WAY. 177 

And thou, sun ! whose light unfurls 

Bright banners through unnumbered skies, 

Seest thou among thy subject worlds 
The radiant portals rise ? 

All, all are mute ! and still am I 

O'erburthened with an earthly weight; 

A pilgrim through the world and sky, 
Towards the Celestial Grate. 

No answer wheresoe'er I roam — 

From skies afar no guiding ray; 
But, hark ! the voice of Christ says, u Come ! 

Arise ! I am the way V* 



THE GREAT ARE FALLING FROM US. 



The great are falling from us — to the dust 
Our flag droops midway full of many sighs ; 

A nation's glory and a people's trust 

Lie in the ample pall where Webster lies. 

The great are falling from us — one by one 

As fall the patriarchs of the forest trees, 

The winds shall seek them vainly, and the sun 

Gaze on each vacant space for centuries. 

(178) 



THE GREAT ARE FALLING FROM US. 179 

Lo, Carolina mourns her steadfast pine 

Which towered sublimely o'er the Southern realm, 
And Ashland hears no more the voice divine 

From out the branches of its stately elm : — 

And Marshfield's giant oak, whose stormy brow 
Oft turned the ocean tempest from the West, 

Lies on the shore he guarded long — and now 
Our startled eagle knows not where to rest ! 



THE DEPARTURE. 



All around me glows the harvest 
As I drop below the town, 

And the pleasant song of workmen 
On the "breeze is floating down. 

Far away the slender brooklet 

Gleams upon the yellow plain, 

Like a newly sharpened sickle 

Dropped amid the golden grain. 

(180) 



THE DEPARTURE. 181 

By the town and through the valleys 

Sweeps the flashing river fast, 
Like a herald to the future 

"With a summons from the past. 

Now my soul hath caught the music 

Of the happy harvest strain, 
And the stream of gladness flashes, 

Like the brooklet, in my brain. 



And, responsive to the river, 
How my spirit sweeps along, 

As it goes to meet the future 
With a purpose firm and strong ! 



10 



BELLS. 



Athwart the quiet morning air 

The bells toll out their solemn chime, 

Whose sounds come laden as they were 
Dropt from the lips of Time. 

They tell me of the days of Eld, 

Of warfare — death — the marriage vow ; 

They speak of whatsoe'er has held 

The peasant from the plough. 

(182) 






BELLS. 183 

But most the glorious sound reveals 
The clangour of that bell which broke 

The sky with Declaration peals, 
When Liberty awoke ! 

Anon, when Truth's triumphal car 
Shall mount regardless of the Past, 

From useless implements of war 
A mightier shall be cast ! 

And worthier far a nation's pride 

The toll upon the blessed air, 
"Which, swelling long and loud and wide, 

Shall endless Peace declare ! 



NIGHT 



Oh Night, most beautiful and rare ! 

Thou giv^st the heavens their holiest hue, 
And through the azure fields of air 

Bring' st down the gentle dew. 

Most glorious occupant of heaven, 
And fairest of the earth and sea, 

The wonders of the sky are given, 
Imperial Night, to thee ! 

For thou, with angel music blest, 

Didst stand in that dim age afar, 

And hold upon thy trembling breast 

Messiah's herald star ! 

(184) 



NIGHT. 185 

In Olivet thou heard'st Him pray, 
And wept thy dews in softer light, 

And kissed his sacred tears away, 
Thrice blessed, loving Night ! 

And thou didst overweigh with sleep 

The watchers at the sepulchre ; 
And heard'st the asking Mary weep 

Till Jesus answered her. 

For this I love thy hallowed reign ; 

For more than this thrice blest thou art ; 
Thou gain'st the unbeliever's brain 

By entering at the heart ! 

Oh Night, whose loving smile divine 

Thus lifts the spirit from the dust, 
God's best and brightest gifts are thine — 

All thine and it is just. 



16* 



WINTER. 



Sad soul — dear heart, why repine ? 

The melancholy tale is plain — 
The leaves of spring, the summer flowers 

Have bloomed and died again. 

The sweet and silver-sandalled Dew 

Which like a maiden fed the flowers, 

Hath waned into the beldame Frost, 
And walked amid our bowers. 

Some buds there were — sad hearts, be still !- 

Which looked awhile unto the sky, 

Then breathed but once or twice, to tell 

How sweetest things may die ! 

(186) 



WINTER. 187 

And some must blight where many bloom ; — 
But, blight or bloom, the fruit must fall ! 

"Why sigh for spring or summer flowers, 
Since Winter gathers all ? 

He gathers all — but chide him not — 
He wraps them in his mantle cold, 

And folds them close, as best he can, 
For he is blind and old. 

Sad soul — dear heart, no more repine — 

The tale is beautiful and plain : 
Surely as Winter taketh all, 

The Spring shall bring again. 



THE BARDS. 



When the sweet day in silence hath departed, 

And twilight comes with dewy, downcast eyes, 
The glowing spirits of the mighty-hearted 
Like stars around me rise. 

Spirits whose voices pour an endless measure, 

Exhaustless as the choral founts of night, 

Until my trembling soul, oppressed with pleasure, 

Throbs in a flood of light. 

(188) 






i 



THE BARDS. 189 

Old Homer's song in mighty undulations 

Comes surging ceaseless up the oblivious main : — 
I hear the rivers from succeeding nations 
Go answering down again. 

Hear Virgil's strain through pleasant pastures strolling, 

And Tasso's sweeping round through Palestine, 
And Dante's deep and solemn river rolling 
Through groves of midnight pine. 

I hear the iron Norseman's numbers ringiDg 

Through frozen Norway like a herald's horn ; 
And like a lark, hear glorious Chaucer singing 
Away in England's morn. 



In Rhenish halls, still hear the pilgrim lover 
Chant his wild story to the wailing strings, 
Till the young maiden's eyes are brimming over 
Like the full cup she brings. 

And hear from Scottish hills the souls unquiet 

Pouring in torrents their perpetual lays, 
As their impetuous mountain runnels riot 
In the long rainy days j 



190 THE BARDS. 

The world-wide Shakspeare — ;the imperial Spenser : 
Whose shafts of song o'ertop the angels' seats, — 
While, delicate as from a silver censer, 

Float the sweet dreams of Keats ! 



Nor these alone — for through the growing present, 

Westward the starry path of Poesy lies — 
Her glorious spirit, like the evening crescent, 
Comes rounding up the skies. 



THE DISTANT MART. 



The day is shut : — November's night, 
On Newark's long and rolling height 

Falls suddenly and soon ; — 
At once the myriad stars disclose ; 
And in the east a glory glows 
Like that the red horizon shows 

Above the moon. 

But on the western mountain tops 
The moon, in new-born beauty, drops 

Her pale and slender ring ; 
Still, like a phantom rising red 
O'er haunted valleys of the dead, 
I see the distant east dispread 

Its fiery wing. 

(191) 



192 THE DISTANT MART. 

I know by thoughts, which, like the skies, 
Grow darker as they slowly rise 

Above my burning heart, 
It is the light the peasant views, 
Through nightly falling frost and dews, 
While Fancy paints in brighter hues 

The distant mart. 

Through shadowy hills and meadows brown 
The calm Passaic reaches down 

Where the broad waters lie ; — 
From hillside homes what visions teem ! 
The fruitless hope — ambitious dream — 
Gro freighted downward with the stream, 

And yonder die ! 

And youths and maids with strange desires 
O'er quiet homes and village spires 

Behold the radiance grow ; 
They see the lighted casements fine — 
The crowded halls of splendour shine — 
The gleaming jewels and the wine — 

But not the woe ! 



THE DISTANT MART. 193 

Take from yon flaunting flame the ray 
Which glows on heads untimely gray, 

On blasted heart and brain, — 
From rooms of death the watcher's lamp, 
From homes of toil, from hovels damp, 
And dens where Shame and Crime encamp 

With Want and Pain : — 

From vain bazaars and gilded halls, 
Where every misnamed pleasure palls, 

Remove the chandeliers; 
Then mark the scanty, scattered rays, 
And think amid that dwindled blaze 
How few shall walk their happy ways 

And shed no tears ! 

But now, when fade the fevered gleams, 
Some trouble melts away to dreams, 

Some pain to sweet repose : — 
And as the midnight shadows sweep, 
Life's noisy torrent drops to sleep, 
Its unseen current dark and deep 

In silence flows. 



17 



THE TWINS 



From a beautiful lake on the mountain 

Two rivulets came down. 
Prattling awhile to the violets, 

Mid shadows green and brown. 

Over beds of golden lustre, 

Around by rock and tree, 

They sang the same tune with their silvery tongues, 

And clapped their hands in glee. 

(194) 



THE TWINS. 195 

Over rocks with mosses mantled, 

They eddied and whirled, like a waltzing pair, 
Till, hand in hand, with laughter and leap 

They mingled their misty hair. 

Over the self-same ledges, 

Singing the self-same tune, 
They passed from April to breezy May, 

Toward the fields of June. 

They whirled, and danced, and dallied, 

And through the meadows slid. 
Till under the same thick grass and flowers 

Their further course was hid ! 

I saw two beautiful children 

Of one fair mother born, 
Playing among the dewy buds 

That bloomed beneath the morn. 

The same in age and beauty, 

The same in voice and size, 
The same bright hair upon their necks, 

The same shade in their eyes. 



196 THE TWINS. 

Singing the same song ever 
In the self-same silvery tune, 

They passed from April into May, 
Toward the fields of June. 

They whirled, and danced, and dallied 

The beautiful vales amid, 
Till under the same thick leaves and flowers 

Their future course was hid. 



OUTWARD BOUND. 



Fare ye well, our native valleys, 
And our native hills farewell ; 

Though we part, your blessed memory 
Shall be with us like a spell : — 

For with you are souls in silence 
Breathing for us hopes and prayers, 

Loving eyes that weep in secret 
Gazing on the vacant chairs. 

Tender hearts made dear unto us 

By unnumbered sacred ties, 

Bend at eve their tearful vision 

To the stars that o'er us rise. 
17* (197) 



198 OUTWARD BOUND. 

There are children, darling children, 
In the April of their years, 

In their play they cease and call us, 
And their laughter melts to tears. 

There are maidens overshadowed 
With a transient cloud of May, 

There are wives who sit in sorrow 
Like a rainy summer day. 

There our parents sit dejected 
In the darkness of their grief, 

Mourning their last hope departed 
As the autumn mourns its leaf. 

But the prayers of these are with us, 
Till the winds that fill the sails 

Seem to be the breath of blessings 
From our native hills and vales. 

Then farewell, the breeze is with us, 
And our vessel ploughs the foam ; 

G-od, who guides the good ship seaward, 
Will protect the loved at home. 



A NIGHT AT THE BLACK SIGN. 



Ye, who follow to the measure 

Where the trump of Fortune leads, 

And at inns a-glow with pleasure 
Rein your golden-harnessed steeds, 

In your hours of lordly leisure 
Have ye heard a voice of woe 

On the starless wind of midnight 
Come and go ? 

Pilgrim brothers, whose existence 
Hides the higher roads of Time, 

Hark, how from the troubled distance, 
Voices made by woe sublime, 

In their sorrow, claim assistance, 

Though it come from friend or foe — 

Shall they ask and find no answer ? 

Rise and go. 

(199) 



200 A NIGHT AT THE BLACK SIGN. 

One there was, who in his sadness 
Laid his staff and mantle down, 
Where the demons laughed to madness 

What the night-winds could not drown- 
Never came a voice of gladness 

Though the cups should foam and flow, 
And the pilgrim thus proclaiming 
Rose to go. 

(t All the night I hear the speaking 
Of low voices round my bed, 

And the dreary floor a-creaking 
Under feet of stealthy tread : — 

Like a very demon shrieking 

Swings the black sign to and fro, 

Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper, 
For I go. 

" On the hearth the brands are lying 

In a black, unseemly show ; 
Through the roof the winds are sighing, 

And they will not cease to blow ; 
Through the house sad hearts replying 

Send their answer deep and low — 
Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper, 
For I go. 



A NIGHT AT THE BLACK SIGN. 201 

" Tell me not of fires relighted 

And of chambers glowing warm, 
Or of travellers benighted, 

Overtaken by the storm. 
Urge me not ; your hand is blighted 

As your heart is — even so ! 
Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper — 
For I go. 

" Tell me not of goblets teeming 

With the antidote of pain, 
For its taste and pleasant seeming 

Only hide the deadly bane ; 
Hear your sleepers tortured dreaming, 

How they curse thee in their woe ! 
Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper, 
For I go. 

" I will leave your dreary tavern 

Ere I drink its mandragore : 
Like a black and hated cavern, 

There are reptiles on the floor ; 
They have overrun your tavern, 

They are at your wine below ! 
Come, arise, thou fearful keeper, 
For I go. 



202 A NIGHT AT THE BLACK SIGN. 

" There's an hostler in your stable 
Tends a steed no man may own, 

And against your windy gable 

How the night-birds scream and moan ! 

Even the bread upon your table 
Is the ashy food of woe ; 

Come, arise, thou fearful keeper, 
For I go. 

" Here I will not seek for slumber, 
And I will not taste your wine : 

All your house the fiends encumber, 
And they are no mates of mine ; 

Never more I join your number 

Though the tempests rain or snow — 

Here's my staff and here's my mantle, 
And I go." 

Suffering brothers — doubly brothers — 
(Pain hath made us more akin) 

Trust not to the strength of others, 
Trust the arm of strength within ; 

One good hour of courage smothers 
All the ills an age can know ; 

Take your staff and take your mantle, 
Rise and go. 



A DESERTED FARM. 



The elms were old, and gnarled, and bent — 
The fields, untilled, were choked with weeds, 

Where every year the thistles sent 
Wider and wider their winged seeds. 

Farther and farther the nettle and dock 

Went colonizing o'er the plain, 

Growing each season a plenteous stock 

Of burrs to protect their wild domain. 

(203) 



204 A DESERTED FARM. 

The last who ever had ploughed the soil 
Now in the furrowed churchyard lay — 

The boy who whistled to lighten his toil 
Was a sexton somewhere far away. 

Instead, you saw how the rabbit and mole 
Burrowed and furrowed with never a fear ; 

How the tunnelling fox looked out of his hole, 
Like one who notes if the skies are clear. 

No mower was there to startle the birds 

With the noisy whet of his reeking scythe ; 

The quail, like a cow-boy calling his herds, 
Whistled to tell that his heart was blithe. 

Now all was bequeathed with pious care — 

The groves and fields fenced round with briers- 

To the birds that sing in the cloisters of air, 
And the squirrels, those merry woodland friars. 



LINES TO A BIRD, 

WHICH SUNG AT MY WINDOW ONE MORNING IN LONDON. 



Whence comest thou, oh wandering soul of song ? 

Bound the celestial gates hast thou been winging, 
And hearkening to the angels all night long 

To brighten earth with somewhat of their singing ? 

Thou child of sunshine, spirit of the flowers ! 

Nature, through thee, with loving tongue rejoices, 
Until these walls dissolve themselves to bowers, 

And all the air is full of woodland voices. 

The winds that slumbered in the fields of dew, 

Float round me now with music on their pinions, 

Such as I heard while yet my years were few, 

By native streams, in boyhood's lost dominions 
18 (205) 



206 LINES TO A BIRD. 

And with the breath of morning on my "brow, 
I hear the accents of the few who love me ; 

Sing on, full heart ! I am no exile now — 
This is no foreign sky that smiles above me. 

I hear the happy sounds of household glee, 

The heart's own music, floating here to bless me, 

And little ones who smiled upon my knee 

Now clap the dimpled hands that would caress me. 

Oh ! music sweeter than the sweetest chime 
Of magic bells by fairies set a-swinging ; 

I am no pilgrim in a foreign clime, 

With these blest visions ever round me clinging. 

I hear a voice no melody can reach ; 

Dear lips, speak on in your accustomed measure, 
And teach my heart what you so well can teach, 

How only love is earth's enduring pleasure. 

Oh ! music sweeter than the Arcadian's tune, 
Wooing. the dryads from the woodlands haunted; 

Or than beneath the mellow harvest moon, 
Trembles at midnio-ht over lakes enchanted ! 



LINES TO A BIRD. 207 

Oil ! sweeter than the herald of the morn, 

The clarion lark, that wakes the drowsy peasant, 

Is this which thrills my breast, so else forlorn, 
And with the Past and distant fills the Present. 



Thus, with the music ringing in my heart, 
I may awhile forget an exile's sorrow, 

And, armed with courage, rise — and so depart ; 
But what sweet bird shall sin£ to me to-morrow ? 



THE SCULPTOR'S LAST HOUR. 



All in their lifetime carve their own soul's statue. 

The middle chimes of night were dead ; — 
The sculptor pressed his sleepless bed, 
With locks grown gray in a world of sin ; 
His eyes were sunken, his cheeks were thin ; 
And, like a leaf on a withering limb, 
The fluttering life still clung to him. 



While gazing on the shadowy wall, 

He heard the muffled knocker fall : — 

Before an answering foot could stir, 

Entered the midnight messenger : 

(208) 



THE SCULPTOR'S LAST HOUR. 209 

Around his shining shoulders rolled 
Long and gleaming locks of gold ; 
The radiance of his features fell 
In Beauty's light unspeakable, 
And like the matin song of birds, 
Swelled the rich music of his words. 

"Arise ! it is your monarch's will; 
Ere sounds from the imperial hill 
The warder's trumpet-blast, 
His palace portal must be passed : 
Arise ! and be the veil withdrawn, 
And let the long-wrought statue dawn ! 
The stars that fill the fields of light 
Must pale before its purer light; 
The unblemished face — the spotless limb, 
Must shine among the seraphim : 
Faultless in form — in nothing dim — ■ 
It must be ere it come to Him !" 

The sculptor rose with heavy heart, 

And slowly put the veil apart, 

And stood with downcast look, entranced, 

The while the messenger advanced, 

And thought he heard, yet knew not why, 

His hopes like boding birds go by, 
18* 



210 THE SCULPTOR'S LAST HOUR. 

And felt his heart sink ceaselessly 

Down, like the friendless dead at sea. 

! for one breath to stir the air, 

To break the stillness of despair; 

Welcome alike, though it were given 

From sulphurous shade, or vales of Heaven ! 

Now on the darkness swelled a sigh ! — 
The sculptor raised his languid eye, 
And saw the radiant stranger stand 
Hiding his sorrow with his hand ; 
His heart a billowy motion kept, 

And ever, with its fall and rise, 
The stillness of the air was swept 
With a long wave of sighs. 
The old man's anxious asking eyes 
Grew larger with their blank surprise, 
With wonder why he wept : — 

And while his eyes and wonder grew, — 
Came, with the tears which gushed anew, 
The music of the stranger's tongue, 
But broken, like a swollen rill 
That heaves adown its native hill, 
Sobbing where late it sung : — 
(t Is this the statue fair and white 



THE SCULPTOR S LAST HOUR. 211 

A long laborious life hath wrought, 
And which our generous Prince hath bought ? 
Is this (so soulless, soiled, and dull) 
To pass the golden gates of light 
And stand among the beautiful? 
The lines which seam the front and cheek 
Too well unholy lusts bespeak ; 
The brow by Anger's hand is weighed, 
And Malice there his scar hath made; 
There Scorn hath set her seal secure, 
And curled the lip against the poor; 
And Hate hath fixed the steady glance 
Which Jealousy hath turned askance ; 
While thoughts, of those dark pareuts born, 
Innumerable, from night till morn, 
And morn till night, have wrought their will, 
Like stones upon a barren hill. 
Old man ! although thy locks be gray, 
And life's last hour is on its way — 
Although thy limbs with palsy quake, 
Thy hands, like windy branches, shake — 
Ere from yon rampart high and round 
The watchful warder's blast shall sound, 
Let this be altered — still it may, — 
Your Monarch brooks no more delay !" 
The stranger spake and passed away. 



212 the sculptor's last hour. 

A moment stood the aged man 

With lips apart, and looks aghast, 

Still gazing where the stranger passed. 
And now a shudder o'er him ran, 
As chill November's breezes sweep 

Across the dying meadow grass ; 
His tongue was dry, he could not speak, 

His eyes were glazed like heated glass. 
But when the tears began to creep 
Adown the channels of his cheek, 
A long and shadowy train, 
Born of his sorrowing brain, 
With shining feet, and noiseless tread, 
By dewy-eyed B,epentance led, 
Around the statue pressed : 
With eager hand and swelling breast 
Hope, jubilant, the chisel seized 

And heavenward turned the eye; 
Forgiveness, radiant and pleased, 
The ridges of the brow released ; 

While with a tear and sigh 
Sweet Charity the scorn effaced ; 

And Mercy, mild and fair, 
Upon the lips her chisel placed, 

And left her signet there : 



THE SCULPTOR'S LAST HOUR. 213 

And Love, the earliest born of Heaven, 

Over the features glowing, ran ; 
While Peace, the best and latest given, 

Finished what Hope began. 

One minute now before the last, 

The stately stranger came ; 
A smile upon the statue cast — 
Then to the fainting stranger passed, 

And spake his errand and his name : 
And on the old man's latest breath 
Swelled the sweet whisper, " Welcome, Death !" 

Afar from the imperial height 

Sounded the warder's horn : 

Upward, by singing angels borne, 
The statue passed the gates of light 
Outshining all the stars of night, 

And fairer than the morn. 



THE SCULPTOR'S FUNERAL. 



Through the darkened streets of Florence, 

Moving toward thy church. Saint Lorenz, 

Marched the bearers, masked and singing, 

With their ghostly flambeaux flinging 

Ghostlier shadows that went winging 

Round the portals and the porches, 

As if spirits, which had hovered 

In the darkness undiscovered, 

Danced about the hissing torches, 

Like the moths that whirl and caper 

Drunken round an evening taper. 

(214) 



THE SCULPTOR'S FUNERAL. 215 

Unconsoled and unconsoling 
Rolled the Arno, louder rolling 
As the rain poured — and the tolling, 
Though the thick shower fell demurely, 
Fell from out one turret only 
"Where the bell swung sad and lonely 
Prisoned in the cloud securely. 
Masked in black, with voices solemn 
Strode the melancholy column, 
With a stiff and soulless burden 
Bearing to the grave its guerdon, 
While the torch flames, vexed and taunted 
By the night winds, leapt and flaunted, 
Mid the funeral rains that slanted, 
Those brave bearers marched and chanted, 
Through the darkness thick and dreary, 
With a woful voice and weary, 



MISERERE. 

Light to light and dark to dark, 

Kindred natures thus agree ; 
Where the soul soars none can mark, 
But the world below may hark — ■ 
Miserere, Domine I 



216 the sculptor's funeral. 

Dew to clew, and rain to rain, 

Swell the streams and reach the sea; 
When the drouth shall burn the plain, 
Then the sands shall but remain — 
Miserere, Domine. 

Flame to flame — let ashes fall 
Where the fireless ashes be; 
Embers black and funeral 
Unto dying cinders call — 
Miserere, Domine ! 

Life to life and dust to dust ! 

Christ, who died upon the tree, 
Thine the promise, ours the trust, 
We are weak — but thou art just — 
Miserere, Domine I 



FIRST BYSTANDER. 

There, stand aside, the very eaves are weeping 
As are the heavens in sympathy with us : — 
Italia' s air hath not within its keeping 
A nobler heart than that which lies there sleeping, 
For whom the elements are wailing thus. 



THE SCULPTOR'S FUNERAL. 217 



SECOND BYSTANDER. 



I reverenced him — he was a marvellous schemer j 
Hath built more airy structures in his day 
Than ever wild and opiate-breathing dreamer 
Hath drugged his dreams with even in Cathay. 
His fancy went in marble round the earth 
And whitened it with statues — where he trod 
The silent people leapt to sudden birth, 
And all the sky, exulting high and broad, 
Became a mighty Pantheon for God. 

THIRD BYSTANDER. 

You reverenced him ? I loved him, with a scope 

Of feeling I may never know again ; 

And love him still, even though beyond all hope 

The priest, the bishop, cardinal, and pope, 

Should banish him to wear a burning chain 

In those great dungeons of the unforgiven, 

Under the space-deep castle walls of Heaven. 

I know the Church considered it a sin, 

I know the Duke considered it a shame — 

That our Alzoni would not stoop to win 

What any blunderer, now-a-day, may claim, 

A niche in Santa Croce, — which hath been, 

And is, to them, the very shrine of Fame ! 
19 



218 the sculptor's funeral. 

Why, look you, why should one carve out his soul 
In bits to meet the world's unthankful stare; 
For Ignorance to hold in his control 
And sly-eyed Jealousy's detracting glare ? 
To see the golden glories of his brain 
Out-glittered by a brazen counterfeit ? 
The starriest spirit only shines in vain, 
When every rocket can outdazzle it ! 



CHORUS OF STUDENTS, FOLLOWING. 

They bear the great Alzoni — he is dead, — 

Our hope is dead, and lies on yonder bier; 
There is no comfort left for any here 
Since he is dead. 



Oh, mother Florence, droop your queenly head, 

And mingle ashes with your wreath of flowers — 
Build funeral altars in your ducal bowers; 
For he is dead. 

» 
Oh, sacred Arno, be your ripples shed 

No more in music o'er your silver sands, 
But mourn to death, and wring your watery hands ; 
For he is dead. 



THE SCULPTOR'S FUNERAL. 219 

Ye dusky palaces, whose gloom is wed 

To princely names that never may depart, 
Drown all your lights in tears — the prince of Art, 
Your hope, is dead ! 

Ye spirits who to glory have been led, 

In years agone, departed souls of might, 
Make joyful space in Heaven, for our delight 
On earth is dead. 



And thus with melancholy songs they bore him 

Into the chapel — 'twixt the columns vast 
They set the bier, and lit great tapers o'er him, 
And looked their last. 

They looked and pondered on his dreamy history 

Whose sudden close had left them broken-hearted, 
Till cloudy censers veiled the light in mystery, 
And they departed. 



DOOMED AND FORGOTTEN. 



Two mighty angels in the outer blue, 

With great palm branches slanting in their hands, 
Stood by the golden gate that guards the view 

Wherein God's temple stands. 

So still they were, the porphyry pillars high 

That propt the fretted cornice and the frieze, 

Stood not more breathless when the choral sky 

Withheld its symphonies. 

(220) 



DOOMED AND FORGOTTEN. 221 

And golden haloes bound their brows in light, 
Till each head shone like Saturn with his rings, 

And to their sandals, beautiful and bright 
Went down their crosswise wings. 

Low at their feet, with pinions all distraught, 
As they the Siroc's stormy path had swept. 

And ashen cheeks still hot with burning thought, 
A spirit sat and wept : — 

And shed such tears as from the heart can flow 
Alone when Hope flies far from our distress, 

Leaving no guide athwart the world of woe, 
The pathless wilderness. 

Thus have I seen some sad and sightless one, 
Before a palace with nor hound nor staff, 

Sit weeping in the sultry dust, with none 
To speak in his behalf. 

But happier far that prisoner from the day, 

With all the sunlight mocking his blank eyes, 

Than him, whose doomed path forgotten lay 

Along the under skies. 
19* 



222 DOOMED AND FORGOTTEN. 

Doomed and forgotten ! These are sounds attuned 

To all the world conceives of misery — 
And drown the heart, as if the last were swooned 
Above us in the sea ! 



Doomed and forgotten — by our God forgot, 
Who noteth even the sparrow in his fall; 
"With whom the smallest living thing is not 
For his great care too small. 

Doomed and forgotten — at the angel's feet 

He sat with dull and weary wings deprest, — 
But now, where once the song of peace was sweet, 
There came no voice of rest. 

There was a time, while yet his cheek's soft glow 

Bloomed in the boyhood of his earthly years, 
He had a vision, which no man may know, 
That drowned his eyes with tears. 

Some God-sent angel, wavering down the sky, 

Had sought him when the world was most apart, 
And given this vision to his dreaming eye, 
And stamped it on his heart. 



DOOMED AND FORGOTTEN. 223 

Then he withdrew from all his fellow youths, 

His heaven-touched soul with inspiration filled, 
And said "My time is God's; the cause is Truth's; 
Beneath their dome I build !" 

For days and nights he walked the solemn wood, 

Rounding to fullest form his great intent, 
And viewless phantoms all about him stood, 
And followed where he went. 

If he despaired, the pine-cone in his way 

Fell from the limb that sentinels the wind — 
The small spring whispered courage where it lay 
In ancient rocks enshrined. 

The wintry mountain stood with glory topt, 

And Iris bound the labouring torrent's brow, 
The acorn, full of future summers, dropt 
From out the stormy bough. 

The flowery vines in Nature's unseen hand 

Curled into wreaths, as if Fame wandered there, — 
The laurel, leaning o'er the pathway, fanned 
The brightness of his hair. 



224 DOOMED AND FORGOTTEN. 

There was a time ! — oh, sad and bitter breath 

That sighs o'er loss of days, no more to be — - 
Of actions dropt to dreams — and dreams to death, 
And then — Eternity ! 

There crouched the spirit, abject and forlorn, 

Upon the azure highway, like a blot, 
And raised its low voice, for they needs must mourn 
The doomed and the forgot. 

But soon, abashed to hear his own "alas I" 

He took his way aslant the nether space — 
And, wheresoever a star beheld him pass, 
It turned and veiled its face ! 

Oh soul, remember, howe'er small the scope 

Of thought, or action, that around thee lies, 
It is the finished task alone can ope 
The gates of Paradise. 



SONG OF THE ALPINE GUIDE. 



On Zurich's spires, with rosy light, 

The mountains smile at morn and eve, 
And Zurich's waters, blue and bright, 

The glories of those hills receive. 
And there my sister trims her sail, 

That like a wayward swallow flies ; 
But I would rather meet the gale 

That fans the eagle in the skies. 

She sings in Zurich's chapel choir, 
Where rolls the organ on the air, 

And bells proclaim, from spire to spire, 
Their universal call to prayer. 

(225) 



226 SONG OF THE ALPINE GUIDE. 

But let me hear the mountain rills, 

And old Saint Bernard's storm-bell toll, 

And, mid these great cathedral hills, 
The thundering avalanches roll. 

My brother wears a martial plume, 

And serves within a distant land, — 
The flowers that on his bosom bloom 

Are placed there by a stranger hand. 
Love meets him but in foreign eyes, 

And greets him in a foreign speech : — 
But she who to my heart replies 

Must speak the tongue these mountains teach. 

The warrior's trumpet o'er him swells, 

The triumph which it only hath ; 
But let me hear the mule-worn bells 

Speak peace in every mountain path. 
His spear is ever 'gainst a foe, 

Where waves the hostile flag abroad ; — 
My pike-staff only cleaves the snow, 

My banner the blue sky of Grod. 

On Zurich's side my mother sits, 
And to her whirring spindle sings — 

Through Zurich's wave my father's nets 
Sweep daily with their filmy wings. 



SONG OP THE ALPINE GUIDE. 227 

To that beloved voice I list 

And view that father's toil with pride ; 
But, like a low and vale-born mist, 

My spirit climbs the mountain side. 

And I would ever hear the stir 

And turmoil of the singing winds, 
Whose viewless wheels around me whirr, 

Whose distaffs are the swaying pines. 
And, on some snowy mountain head, 

The deepest joy to me is given, 
When, Bet-like, the great storm is spread 

To sweep the azure lake of heaven. 

Then, since the vale delights me not, 

And Zurich woos in vain below, 
And it hath been my joy and lot 

To scale these Alpine crags of snow — 
And since in life I loved them well, 

Let me in death lie down with them, 
And let the pines and tempests swell 

Around me their great requiem. 



MORNING IN MARTIGNY. 



'Tis sunrise on Saint Bernard's snow, 
'Tis dawn within the vale below; 
And in Martigny's streets appear 
The mule and noisy muleteer ; 
And tinklings fill the rosy air, 
Until the mountain pass seems there, 
Up whose steep pathway scarcely stirs 
The long, slow line of travellers ; 
And in the shadowy town is heard 
The sound of many a foreign word. 

Old men are there, whose locks are white 

As yonder cloud which veils the height ; 

And maidens, whose young cheeks are kissed 

By ringlets flashing bright or dark, 

(228) 



MORNING IN MARTIGNY. 229 

Whose hearts are light as yonder mist 
That holds the music of the lark — 
And youths are there with jest and laugh, 
Each bearing his oft-branded staff 
To chronicle, when all is done, 
The dangerous heights his feet have won. 

So toils through life the pilgrim soul 

Mid rocky ways and valleys fair ; 
At every base or glorious goal, 

His staff receives the record there — 
The names that shall for ever twine, 
And blossom like a fragrant vine — 
Or, like a serpent, round it cling 
Eternally to coil and sting. 



20 



A MAIDEN'S TEARS. 



0, when a maiden's soul is stirred 

To pity's deepest, last excess, 
And, like some lonely, brooding bird, 

Folds its bright wings in mournfulness ; 
And pours its sympathy in sighs, 

That sweeten on the rosy lips; 
And sends the tears into the eyes, 

To flood them with a half eclipse, — 

How brighter its veiled beauty shows 

Than all the light which joy bestows ! 

(230) 



i 



a maiden's tears. 231 

Thus fairer the fair flower appears, 

Beneath a dewy fullness bowed ; 
The moon a double lustre wears, 

Within the halo of a cloud. 
The music of a maiden's mirth 
May be the sweetest sound to earth ) 
But tears, in love and pity given, 
Are welcomer, by far, to Heaven. 



WOMAN 



An angel wandering out of heaven, 
And all too bright for Eden even, 
Once through the paths of paradise 

Made luminous the auroral air ; 
And, walking in His awful guise, 

Met the Eternal Father there ; 

Who, when he saw the truant sprite, 

Smiled love through all those bowers of light. 

While deep within his tranced spell, 

Our Eden sire lay slumbering near, 

God saw, and said : " It is not well 

For man alone to linger here." 

(232) 



WOMAN. 233 

Then took that angel by the hand, 

And with a kiss its brow He prest, 
And whispering all His mild command; 

He laid it on the sleeper's breast ; 
With earth enough to make it human, 
He chained its wings, and called it woman. 
And if perchance some stains of rust 

Upon her pinions yet remain, 
'Tis but the mark of God's own dust, 

The earth -mould of that Eden chain ! 



20* 



THE CITY OF GOD. 



" Heaven lies about us in our infancy." — Wordsworth. 

Ere the rose and the roseate hues of the dawn, 

Y\ T ith the dews of my youth, were all scattered and gone ; 

Ere the cloud, like the far reaching wing of the night, 

Had shut out the glory of God from my sight, 

I saw a wide realm in the azure unfold, 

"Where the fields nodded towards me their flowers of gold ; 

And the soft airs sailed o'er them, and dropt from above, 

As if shed from innumerous pinions of love : 

(234) 



THE CITY OF GOD. 235 

There were trees with broad "boles steeped in perfume and 

dew, 
While their full breasts for ever leaned up to the blue — 
And within their wide bosoms the winds seemed to rest 
With the calm like the sleep of a soul that is blest ; 
Or, if any light rustle stole out from their limbs, 
'Twas the murmurous music of delicate hymns — 
As if some dear angel sat singing within 
To a spirit just won from the regions of sin : 
There were streams which seemed born but in slumberous 

bowers, 
Stealing down, like a dream, through the sleep of the 

flowers — 
So pure was the azure they won from the height, 
The blue hills seemed melting to rivers of light ; 
And within this fair realm, where but angels have trod, 
I beheld, as I thought, the great City of God! 
All its high walls were pierced with no engines of Death — 
No moat, with its dull pool, lay stagnant beneath : 
The last bolts, I ween, the stout heart has to fear, 
Are pointed and sped from Death's citadel here ; 
And the last hungry moat the pure soul has to brave, 
Ere it passes the portal to bliss, is the grave ! 
There the wide wall went East till it dimmed to the view — 
And the wide wall went West till it passed into blue; 



236 THE CITY OF GOD. 

And the broad gates stood open, inviting that way, 
Like the hands of the Lord to his children astray. 
There were high towers, climbing still dazzingly higher, 
Till each shone like a fixed guiding pillar of fire ; 
And the angels who watched on their summits afar 
So lessened by distance, gleamed each as a star : 
And the great dome that templed the Father in light, 
Seemed to swell and to circle and swell on the sight — 
As some angel who cleaves his bright way 'mid the 

spheres, 
Beholds the blue dome of the earth as he nears. 
There was music — my soul unto memory yields, 
And hears the low sounds floating over the fields — 
But, alas ! not as then, with its rapturous desire — 
Like some bird that sits hushed by the song of a choir; 
It melted and flowed o'er the walls and the towers, 
And sweet as if breathed from the lips of the flowers — 
As if the bright blossoms, with loving accord, 
Had risen and sang to the praise of the Lord ! 
Then I thought 'mid that music to wander and wait 
For the loved ones, just there by the palm at the gate, 
To begin the great life that no Death can o'ertake, 
And to dream the great dream that no tumult can break: 
In the broad world of Beauty, of flowers and bliss — 
But, alas ! I awoke where the thorns grow in this : 



THE CITY OP GOD. 237 

And the walls of Death's citadel now intervene, 

And the grave, like a moat, yawns here darkly between : 

But still, through the mists and the shadows of night, 

I can follow the stars on those pillars of light ; 

And I know the great gates stand there open and broad, 

Inviting the way to the City of God. 



THE TRUANT. 



Where is the truant? This should be the place, 
Where even now we heard him laugh outright, 

To greet the sun, as if he saw the face 
Of some bright angel smiling in the light. 

Surely the morn hath beckoned him away, 
Enticing him with glory from afar : 

Arise ! and we may find him in his play, 
Shining amid the sweetest flowers that are. 

His little eyes, so full of bright desires, 

Could not withstand yon orient space of flowers ; 
And he hath ' scaped the intervening briers, 

The field for bleeding feet which we call ours. 

(238) 



THE TRUANT. 239 

! 

I It cannot be be wandered out alone ; 

0, ratbor tbat dear friend of many charms, 
Wbo wooed bim in eacb ligbt tbat round us shone, 
"Won bim at last into bis careful arms. 

i ! look again, a little furtber look, 

And weep no tear unless it be for joy, 
i Toward yon sweet field, wbere flower, and bird, and brook 

Beguile tbe glad beart of our truant boy. 

Look closer still, until your gaze lias won 

And passed tbe barriers overflowercd with stars, — 

Those morning-glories closing in tbe sun, 

And you sball see bim tbrough tbe golden bars. 

Watch wbere be goes, still making toward the ligbt, 

Our angel truant gladly ncaring borne, 
While a deep voice from that celestial height 

Bids us be calm and suffer bim to come. 



THE LITTLE SISTERS. 



Fair Baniblers in the golden realm 

Where childhood's star prevails, 
Like Morning sandalled with the dew 

Ye walk those sacred vales : — 

And through enchanted fields, where lie 

The sun's celestial beams, 
Adown the amber air ye chase 

The laughter-winged dreams. 

Those dreams, whose wings are soiled and crushed 

In life's maturer hours, 

Are caught and held within your palms, 

As they were wrapt in flowers ! 

(240; 



THE LITTLE SISTERS. 241 

Dear pilgrims in the holy land, 

The Orient of your years, 
The angels have filled up your scrip 

With beauty, mirth, and tears : — 

With tears that are not born of grief, 

But swim within the eyes 
Like stars amid the wavering shades 

Of morn-illumined skies. 

And they have mantled you in robes 

Of loveliness and light, 
And placed the lily on your breasts 

Which sun nor shade shall blight — 

And crowned your brows with nameless flowers, 

And buds that time shall ope, 
And given into your little hands 

The vernal staff of Hope : — 

So purely have they filled your scrip, — 

So lovingly have given, — 

That ye are pilgrim memories 

Of what they saw in Heaven I 
21 



THE MARSEILLAISE. 



I heard, as in a glorious dream, 

A clarion thrill the startled air, 
And saw an answering people stream 

Through every noisy thoroughfare. 
There were the old, whose hairs were few, 

Or white with memory of the days 
Of Egypt, Moscow, Waterloo, — 

And now they sang the "Marseillaise. " 

The aged scholar, pale and wan, 

Was there within the marshalled line, 

And, jostled by the noisy van, 

The poet with his voice divine : — 

(242) 



THE MARSEILLAISE. 243 

No more could tomes the sage beguile ; 

The bard no longer wooed the praise 
That dribbles from a monarch's smile, 

For now they sang the u Marseillaise !" 



And there were matrons, who of yore 

Had wept a son or husband slain, 
Or chanted for their Emperor 

A long and loud triumphal strain : — 
Their woe inspired the song no more, 

Nor yet Napoleon's crown of bays, 
Which rankly sprang from fields of gore, 

For now they sang the " 3farscillaise !" 



The peasants, from their hills of vines, 

Came streaming to the open plains ; 
No more they bore their tax of wines 

To stagnate in a tyrant's veins ; 
France needed not the purple flood 

To set her heart and brain ablaze, — 
A wilder wine was in her blood, 

For now she sang the " Marseillaise !" 



244 THE MARSEILLAISE. 

The Bourbon's throne was trampled down, 

And France no longer knelt ; but now, 
Struck with a patriot's hand the crown 

From off the Orleans' dotard brow; — 
Released from slavery and tears, 

She rose and sang fair Freedom's praise, 
Till far along the future years 

I heard the swelling " Marseillaise !" 



THE OLD YEAR. 



Lo, now, when dark December's gathering storm 
With heavy wing o'ershadows many a heart, 
Beside us the old year, with mailed form, 
Stands waiting to depart. 

Weighed down as with a ponderous tale of woe, 

How dim his eyes, how wan his cheeks appear ! 

Like Denmark's spectre king, with motion slow 

He beckons the young year. 



21 



(245) 



INDIAN SUMMER. 



It is the season when the light of dreams 
Around the year in golden glory lies ; — 
The heavens are full of floating mysteries, 

And in the lake the veiled splendour gleams ! 
Like hidden poets lie the hazy streams, 

Mantled with mysteries of their own romance, 

"While scarce a breath disturbs their drowsy trance. 
The yellow leaf which down the soft air gleams, 

Glides, wavers, falls, and skims the unruffled lake. 
Here the frail maples and the faithful firs 

By twisted vines are wed. The russet brake 

Skirts the low pool ; and starred with open burrs 

The chestnut stands — But when the north-wind stirs, 

How, like an armed host, the summoned scene shall wake ! 

(246) 



FREEDOM'S DAY. 



I heard a voice from out the woodlands call, 

A music wandering from the fields afar ; 

The song of bird and brook and waterfall — 

The sweetest sounds that are. 

The forest swung his green arms broad and strong, 

Like some old minstrel with wild floating hair, 
And woke with solemn hands the notes of song 
From viewless chords of air. 



The wide fields wavering like a summer sea, 

Caught the low cadence in their billowy grass , 

The white fall heard it in its foamy glee, 

And swell'd it in its pass. 

(247) 



248 freedom's day. 

i 
The brooklet stealing under shade and sun ; 

The river dreaming in the misty noon ; 

The lake with summer breezes oveiTun, 

Prolonged the passing tune. 

The flowers made haste to show themselves in bloom, 

And to the air, like bells, their incense rang, 
Till nature, thus, with music and perfume 
Its invitation sang : 

Come to the woodlands — in all seasons come, 

For these are Freedom's temples — this her air, 
Although no clarions and no martial drum, 
Her presence here declare : 

Come when the Autumn dons her robe of brown, 
What time the sky assumes its funeral weeds, 
And while the forest sheds her red leaves down 
As when a nation bleeds : 

Come to the woodlands when the leaves are gone, 

When every tree like some brave patriot stands, 
Though stripped of all, still bravely battling on 
With heaven-imploring hands. 



freedom's day. 249 

Come when the winter wanders white and wide, 

And Memory there shall paint, with rapid hand, 
How toiled your sires, how suffered and how died, 
To liberate the land. 



Then come again when springtime floods are full, 

When scanty snows lie in the shade forlorn, 
And wintry badges of the tangled wool 
Wave on the leafless thorn. 

And when the violet lifts the last year's leaf, 

And from its tent with cautious wonder peeps, 
And childlike April with its fancies brief 
Alternate laughs and weeps. 

And when the blue-bird, poet of the Spring, 

Enchants with song the frost-encumbered bow'rs ; 
And while the south wind waves its scented wing, 
And wakes the world of flowers. 



Come to the woodlands — in the springtime, come 
And learn how Nature, wearied of her chain, 
No longer manacled — no longer dumb — 
Starts from her thrall again. 



250 . freedom's day. 

So burst of old the few, the brave, the choice, 

And chased the tyrant howling from our shore, 
Till Freedom, rising with her sacred voice, 
Proclaimed his reign was o'er. 



Come chiefly now, when all the boughs are green, 
And flowers are bright in every way -side nook, 
And summer birds make musical the scene, 
O'er forest, field, and brook. 

When sunshine, like contentment, gilds the sward, 

And wide abundance clads the harvest plain — 
While Labour, smiling o'er his sure reward, 
Toils 'mid the golden grain. 

Come to the woodlands, and, in this bright hour, 

Forget tha town with all its world of care ; 
While happy bells from every spire and tower 
Make jubilant the air. 

Here may your brave untrammelled souls increase 
With all the gladness which the time can yield, 
Your hearts be full of freedom and of peace 
As is a harvest field. 



! 



freedom's day. 251 

The ample riches of the plenteous year 

Lie round you all, by glorious heroes given, 
You reap their planted hopes — while even here 
They smile on you from heaven. 



Then let the bells re-echo loud and high 

The cannon thunder near and far away, 
And let your banners write along the sky, 
This I this is Freedom's Day I 



A PSALM FOR THE SORROWING. 



Gray wanderer in a homeless world, 

Poor pilgrim to a dusty bier; 
On Time's great cycle darkly hurled 

From year to year : 
See in the sky these words unfurled : 

" Thy home is here !" 

Pale mourner, whose quick tears reveal 

Thy weight of sorrow but begun 

Not long thy burdened soul shall reel 

Beneath the sun; 

A few swift circles of the wheel, 

And all is done. 

(252) 



A PSALM FOR THE SORROWING. 253 

Though galled with fetters ye have lain, 

To vulture hopes and fears a prey ; 
Oh, moan not o'er your ceaseless pain 

Or slow decay ; 
For know, the soul thus files its chain 
And breaks away. 



212 



ONCE MORE INTO THE OPEN AIR. 



Once more into the open air, 

Once more beneath the summer skies, 
To fields and woods and waters fair, 

I come for all which toil denies. 

I loiter down through sun and shade, 

And where the waving pastures bloom, 

And near the mowers' swinging blade 

Inhale the clover's sweet perfume. 

(254) 



ONCE MORE INTO THE OPEN AIR- 255 

The brook which late hath drank its fill, 

Out-sings the merry birds above ; 
The river past the neighbouring hill 

Flows like a quiet dream of love. 

Yon rider in the harvest plain, 

The master of these woods and fields, 

Knows not how largely his domain 
To me its richest fulness yields. 

He garners what he reaps and mows, 

But there is that he cannot take, 
The love which Nature's smile bestows, 

The peace which she alone can make. 



A NIGHT THOUGHT. 



Long have I gazed upon all lovely things, 
Until my soul was melted into song, — 

Melted with love, till from its thousand springs 
The stream of adoration, swift and strong, 

Swept in its ardour, drowning brain and tongue, 

Till what I most would say was borne away unsuDg. 

The brook is silent when it mirrors most 

Whatever is grand or beautiful above ; 

The billow which would woo the flowery coast 

Dies in the first expression of its love ; 

(256) 



A NIGHT THOUGHT. 257 

And could the bard consign to living breath 

Feelings too deep for thought, the utterance were death ! 



The starless heavens at noon are a delight ; 

The clouds a wonder in their varying play, 
And beautiful when from their mountainous height 

The lightning's hand illumes the wall of day : — 
The noisy storm bursts down, and passing brings 
The rainbow poised in air on unsubstantial wings. 

But most I love the melancholy night — 
When with fixed gaze I single out a star, 

A feeling floods me with a tender li^ht — 
A sense of an existence from afar, 

A life in other spheres of love and bliss, 

Communion of true souls — a loneliness in this ! 



There is a sadness in the midnight sky — 
An answering fuluess in the heart and brain, 

Which tells the spirit's vain attempt to fly, 
And occupy those distant worlds again. 

At such an hour Death's were a loving trust, 

If life could then depart in its contempt of dust. 



258 A NIGHT THOUGHT. 

It may be that this deep and longing sense 

Is but the prophecy of life to come ; 
It may be that the soul in going hence 

May find in some bright star its promised home ; 
And that the Eden lost for ever here 
Smiles welcome to me now from yon suspended sphere. 



There is a wisdom in the light of stars, 
A worldless lore which summons me away ; 

This ignorance belongs to earth, which bars 
The spirit in these darkened walls of clay, 

And stifles all the soul's aspiring breath ; — 

True knowledge only dawns within the gates of Death. 

Imprisoned thus, why fear we then to meet 
The angel who shall ope the dungeon door, 

And break these galling fetters from our feet, 
To lead us up from Time's benighted shore ? 

Is it for love of this dark cell of dust, 

Which, tenantless, awakes but horror and disgust ? 



Long have I mused upon all lovely things ; 
But thou, oh Death ! art lovelier than all ; 



A NIGHT THOUGHT. 259 

Thou sheddest from thy recompensing wings 

A glory which is hidden by the pall — ■ 
The excess of radiance falling from thy plume 
Throws from the gates of Time a shadow on the tomb. 



RUTH 



SUGGESTED BY A STATUE EXECUTED BY MB, BOGEBS IN 
TLOEENCE. 



From age to age, from clime to clime, 
A spirit, bright as her own morn, 

She walks the golden fields of Time, 
As erst amid the yellow corn. 

A form o'er which the hallowed veil 

Of years bequeaths a lovelier light, 

As when the mists of morniug sail 

Bound some far isle to make it bright. 

(200) 



RUTH. 261 

And as some reaper 'mid the grain, 

Or binder resting o'er his sheaf, 
Beheld her on the orient plain, 

A passing vision bright and brief j — 



And while he gazed let fall perchance 
The sheaf or sickle from his hand — 

Thus even here, as in a trance, 
Before her kneeling form I stand. 

But not as then she comes and goes 

To live in memory alone ; 
The perfect soul before me glows 

Immortal in the living stone. 

And while upon her face I gaze 
And scan her rarely rounded form, 

The glory of her native days 

Comes floating o'er me soft and warm j- 

Comes floating, till this shadowy place 
Brightens to noontide, and receives 

The breath of that old harvest space. 
With all its sunshine and its sheaves ! 



SONG OF THE SERF. 



I know a lofty lady, 

And she is wondrous fair; 
She hath wrought my soul to music 

As the leaves are wrought by air; 
And like the air that wakes 

The foliage into play, 
She feels no thrill of all she makes 

When she has passed away. 

I know a lofty lady 

Who seldom looks on me, 

Or when she smiles, her smile is like 

The moon's upon the sea. 

(262) 



SONG OF THE SERF. 2C3 

As proudly and serene 

She shines from her domain, 
Till my spirit heaves beneath her mien, 

And floods my aching brain. 

I know a lofty lady : — 

But I would not wake her scorn 
By telling all the love I bear, 

For I am lowly born ; 
So low, and she so high — 

And the space between us spread 
Makes me but as the weeds that lie 

Beneath her stately tread. 



BALBOA. 



From San Domingo's crowded wharf 

Fernandez' vessel bore, 
To seek in unknown lands afar 

The Indian's golden ore. 

And hid among the freighted casks, 

Where none might see or know, 

Was one of Spain's immortal men, 

Three hundred years ago ! 

(264) 



BALBOA. 265 

But when the fading town and land 

Had dropped below the sea, 
He met the captain face to face, 

And not a fear had he ! 

" What villain thou V Fernandez cried, 

" And wherefore serve us so V 
" To be thy follower," he replied 

Three hundred years ago. 

He wore a manly form and face, 

A courage firm and bold, 
His words fell on his comrades' hearts, 

Like precious drops of gold. 

They saw not his ambitious soul; 

He spoke it not — for lo ! 
He stood among the common ranks 

Three hundred years ago. 

But when Fernandez' vessel lay 

At golden Darien, 
A murmur, born of discontent, 

Grew loud among the men : 
23 



BALBOA. 

And with the "word there came the act; 

And with the sudden blow 
They raised Balboa from the ranks, 

Three hundred years ago. 

And while he took command beneath 

The banner of his lord, 
A mighty purpose grasped his soul, 

As he had grasped the sword. 

He saw the mountain's fair blue height 

Whence golden waters flow ) 
Then with his men he scaled the crags, 

Three hundred years ago. 

He led them up through tangled brakes, 

The rivulet's sliding bed, 
And through the storm of poisoned darts 

From many an ambush shed. 

He gained the turret crag — alone — 

And wept ! to see below, 
An ocean, boundless and unknown, 

Three hundred years ago. 



BALBOA. 

And while he raised upon that height 

The banner of his lord, 
The mighty purpose grasped him still, 

As still he grasped his sword. 

Then down he rushed with all his men, 

As headlong rivers flow, 
And plunged breast-deep into the sea, 

Three hundred years ago. 

And while he held above his head 
The conquering flag of Spain, 

He waved his gleaming sword, and smote 
The waters of the main : 

For Home ! for Leon ! and Castile ! 

Thrice gave the cleaving blow ; 
And thus Balboa claimed the sea, 

Three hundred years ago. 



. 2or 



THE NEW VILLAGE. 



Dear to our hearts, our homes, and household fires, 

Where youthful pleasures hailed each happy morn ; 

Where sang our mothers, and where sat our sires, 

Whose blessed looks our memories adorn. 

Sacred the threshold by their footsteps worn, 

From whence at last went forth the funeral train — 

Leaving our hearts by bitter anguish torn ; 

Sacred the ground where their dear dust has lain ; 

Sacred the church, the town, and the surrounding plain. 

(268) 



THE NEW VILLAGE. 269 

Not less the Indian loves his native spot, 
Nor walks he less in memory's blessed beam ; 
His parents, playmates, and the clay-built cot, 
Melt o'er his senses like a morning dream. 
See the small village sloping to the stream 
Beneath the arch of the ancestral wood ; 
Along the shade the dusky children teem, 
Waking in mimic chase the solitude, 
Free as their Eden-sire, as innocently nude. 

Here dusky maidens roam through nature's bowers 
Mating with fawns along the pathless ways, 
Blithsome as birds, as sinless as the flowers, 
Wild as the brook, and wandering where it strays, 
Pouring to heaven their sweet, unconscious praise ; 
The foliage bends to greet them as they pass, 
And buds unfold to court their tender gaze ; 
The daisies kiss their foot-falls in the grass, 
And little streams stand still to paint them in their glass. 

Up with the day and glowing as the morn, 

Along the brook the laughing children wade ; 

The happy matron grinds the golden corn ; 

The sturdy hunters, for the chase arrayed, 

Swift as their arrows flash from sun to shade : 
23* 



270 THE NEW VILLAGE. 

Some spear the fish, and some collect the nut, 
Till twilight sheds her shadows o'er the glade ; 
And when the day by peaceful night is shut, 
Sleep, like an angel, reigns in every quiet hut. 



But now the Indian dons his painted dress, 
And burning glances flash their wordless ire, 
Murdering peace through all the wilderness ; 
And youthful Brave, and gray and wrinkled Sire, 
"Weave the wild war-dance at the midnight fire, 
Where war-clubs, waved by naked arms and strong, 
And knives and axes, speak the wild desire, 
And maids and matrons mingle in the throng, 
Swelling the sullen tide of dull monotonous song. 



Such now their nights ; but at the approach of day 
Low sinks the fire, and dies the warlike sound, 
While through the woods the warriors glide away, 
And on the victim spring with sudden bound, 
Hurling the hated settler to the ground. 
Not long the Indian's skill or strength defies 
The tide which westward bears its way profound ; 
Conquered at last, the flying tribe descries 
Its ancient wigwams burn, and light its native skies. 



THE NEW VILLAGE. 271 

The pioneers their gleaming axes swing, 
The sapling falls, and dies the forest's sire — 
The foliage fades — but sudden flames upspring, 
And all the grove is leafed again with fire ; 
While gleams the pine tree like a gilded spire, 
The homeless birds sail, circling wild, and high ; 
At night the wolves gaze out their fierce desire ; 
For weeks the smoke spreads, blotting all the sky, 
While, twice its size, the sun rolls dull and redly by. 

Before the cabin on the river's side, 
When in the unknown west the day is done, 
The labourers talk away the eventide, 
Rehearse the plan so gloriously begun, 
What house to rear, and where the street shall run. 
The morning comes, and with its earliest gleam 
Loud ring the anvils, glowing like the sun ; 
There fall the axe and adze that shape the beam, 
And here the noisy raftsmen labour in the stream. 

Behold the village ! There the tavern grows, 

A little inn with large, inviting sign ) 

There the new store its mingled medley shows ; 

And over all, yet simple in design, 

The general care, ascends the house Divine ; 



272 THE NEW VILLAGE. 

The unfinished steeple, like a- skeleton, 
Shows the blue sky between its ribs of pine; 
Its gilded summit courts the early sun, 
And holds it latest when the toilsome day is done. 



Now from the belfry rings a cheerful sound, 
The air hangs trembling between joy and fear, 
And echoes answer from the hills around, 
Frightening the wild duck from the sedgy mere, 
While trembles by the stream the listening deer, 
Bending to drink, the creature stands deterred ; 
The squirrel drops his nut and turns to hear ; 
All nature listens like a startled bird, 
To hear the marriage bell, the first those forests heard. 



But hark ! again the melancholy toll, 
Spreading the shadow of the pall around, 
While nature answers to its dreadful dole ; 
Beside the church there lies the sacred ground, 
And in its midst is made the first new mound ; 
The fairest flower of all that western space 
Sleeps in the grave, by sweetest blossoms crowned — 
The pure in heart ; the beautiful in face — 
A fitting dust was hers to consecrate the place ! 



THE NEW VILLAGE. 273 

Thus it begins ; but who shall know the end ? 
What prophet's thought shall down the future go, 
To tell how oft again that bell shall send 
Through all the vale the notes of joy or' woe; 
What graves shall sink ; what countless mounds shall 

grow — 
What rich, aspiring temples there shall stand 
For Time to darken and to overthrow ; 
How there at last shall lurk some savage band, 
While woods and wolves unchecked shall claim their 
native land ? 



AN HOUR WITH NATURE. 



How calm and cloudless is the land ! 

An azure mist its only veil, 

Which made the lake at morning pale, 

Until Aurora's breezy hand 

Over the watery mirror passed, 

Then presently so still and blue 

The sky within the wave was glassed, 

No ripple answered to a breath — 

It seemed as one descending through 

Might sink to heaven unknown to Death. 

(274) 



AN HOUR WITH NATURE. 275 

The winds are folded all to rest 

Within the silent upper deep — 

The woodlands dream — the meadows sleep, — 
No sound comes from the mountain's breast, 

Save that a shepherd wandering there 

Is piping to his snow-white flocks, 
Which move like clouds — a noiseless number — 
And charm the slopes which they encumber; — 
Or where the brook, with floating hair, 

Comes lightly down the rugged steep, 
And makes a music 'mid the rocks, 
Like one who walks and sings in slumber. 

But these are all so far away, 

The very sounds that meet the ear 
Across the distance, seem to say, 

How all within this happy sphere 
Is Poesy's — and far and near 
The heavens let down their peaceful breath ; 
The dreamy quiet whispering, saith, 
The busy world is gone from here, 
The iron pestilence has fled — 
The discord threatening death is dead ; — 
And now the vale has nought to fear 
Unless (oh perish thought of pain), 
Unless that world return again ! 



276 AN HOUR WITH NATURE. 

Return ! oh let not Fancy bring 

The nightmare of that dreadful dream, 
That dragon-steed, whose noisy wing 

O'ershadowed valley, hill, and stream; 
Nor let the lakelet's broad expanse 
Be wakened from its dreamy trance, 
Unless by some light flashing oar 
That draws the shallop from the shore. 



Nor yonder hillside singing stream, 
Be stolen from its happy course, 

And tortured till its voice is hoarse 

And frightens nature with its scream. 

But rather on its native hill, 

Still let it dally with the mill ; 

For in such musical turmoil 

Methinks the freest streams delight, 

And mingling song with all their toil 
They cheer the landscape day and night. 



Oh here is calm ! — still hold afar 

Old world thy hard unsparing hand — 

We covet not the flying car 

That like an earthquake rends the land !- 



AN HOUR WITH NATURE. 277 

No, rather we will wander hence 

O'er breezy heights — through valleys green, 
With nought to blind or jar the sense, 
And in the soul, with joy intense, 

Receive the moral of the scene. 



Oh, here is calm — for here no wheels 
Convulse the water as they fly ; 

But we can dream of tranquil keels, 
That glide in antique grandeur by, 

And watch the sail that only feels 
And owns the influence of the sky. 



Bold Age, a deathless fame is yours, 

And we accord the honour due — 
But is it well the time immures 

Its spirit solely in the new ? 
Old thoughts there are still worthy trust, 

Old names and customs worthy praise ; 
Nor is it wise to shake the dust 

'Gainst simple Nature and her ways. 
You deem your iron course sublime 

Where Science holds secure control ; 



278 AN HOUR WITH NATURE. 

But never think how deep the time 

May sink its iron in the soul. 
Oh could you but withdraw apart 

A little season from the din, 
And take a lesson to the heart 

From flowers that neither toil nor spin ; 
And with a tranquil, loving eye, 

GrO to the open fields, and take 
The calm that lies beneath the sky, 

And love all nature for its sake, — 
Then haply your far-seeing mind 

Would hold no longer as a dream, 
Things which it now contemns — and find 

These may be nobler than they seem ! 






LINES WRITTEN IN FLORENCE. 



Within this far Etruscan clime, 

By vine-clad slopes and olive plains, 

And round these walls still left by Time, 
The hound' ries of his old domains : — 

Here at the dreamer's golden goal, 

Whose dome o'er winding Arno drops, 

Where old Romance still breathes its soul 
Through Poesy's enchanted stops : — 

Where Art still holds her ancient state 

(What though her banner now is furled), 

And keeps within her guarded gate 

The household treasures of the world : — ■ 

(270) 



280 LINES WRITTEN IN FLORENCE. 

What joy amid all this to. find 

One single bird, or flower, or leaf, 

Earth's any simplest show designed 

For pleasure, what though frail or brief — 

If but that leaf, or bird, or flower 

Were wafted from the western strand, 

To breathe into one happy hour 

The freshness of my native land ! 

That joy is mine — the bird I hear, 

The flower is blooming near me now, 

The leaf that some great bard might wear 
In triumph on his sacred brow. 

For lady, while thy voice and face 

Make thee the Tuscan's loveliest guest, 

Within this old romantic space 

Breathes all the freshness of the West. 



LABOUR. 



" Labour, labour !" sounds the anvil, 
"Labour, labour, until death I" 

And the file, with voice discordant, 
" Labour, endless labour !" saith. 

While the bellows to the embers 
Speak of labour in each breath. 

" Labour, labour !" in the harvest, 
Saith the whetting of the scythe, 

And the mill-wheel tells of labour 
Under waters falling blithe; 

"Labour, labour !" groaned the millstones, 

To the bands that whirl and writhe; 
24* (281) 



282 LABOUR. 

And the woodman tells of labour, 
In his echo-waking blows ; 

In the forest, in the cabin, 

'Tis the dearest word he knows. 

" Labour, labour V saith the spirit, 
And with labour conies repose. 

et Labour I" saith the loaded wagon, 
Moving towards the distant mart. 

" Labour \" groans the heavy steamer, 
As she cleaves the waves apart. 

Beating like that iron engine, 

" Labour, labour I" cries the heart. 

Yes, the heart of man cries " labour V 
While it labours in the breast. 

But the Ancient and Eternal, 

In the Word which he hath blest, 

Sayeth, " Six days shalt thou labour, 
On the seventh thou shalt rest !" 



THE WINDY NIGHT. 



Alow and aloof, 

Over the roof, 
How the midnight tempests howl ! 

With a dreary voice, like the dismal tune 
Of wolves that bay at the desert moon j — 

Or whistle and shriek 

Through limbs that creak, 

"Tu-who! tu-whit I" 

They cry and flit, 
" Tu-whit ! tu-who !" like the solemn owl ! 

Alow and aloof, 

Over the roof, 

Sweep the moaning winds amain, 

(283) 



284 THE WINDY NIGHT. 

And wildly dash 
The elm and ash, 
Clattering on the window-sash, 

With a clatter and patter, 
Like hail and rain 
That well nigh shatter 
The dusky pane ! 

Alow and aloof 

Over the roof, 
How the tempests swell and roar ! 

Though no foot is astir, 

Though the cat and the cur 
Lie dozing along the kitchen floor, 

There are feet of air 

On every stair ! 

Through every hall — 

Through each gusty door, 
There's a jostle and hustle, 
With a silken rustle, 
Like the meeting of guests at a festival ! 

Alow and aloof, 
Over the roof, 
How the stormy tempests swell ! 



THE WINDY NIGHT. 285 

And make the vane 

On the spire complain — 
They heave at the steeple with might and main 

And burst and sweep 
Into the belfry, on the bell ! 
They smite it so hard, and they smite it so well, 

That the sexton tosses his arms in sleep, 
And dreams he is rinsing a funeral knell ! 



A DIRGE FOR A DEAD BIRD. 



The cage hangs at the window, 
There's the sunshine on the sill ; 

But where the form and where the voice 
That never till now were still ? 

The sweet voice hath departed 
From its feathery home of gold ; 

The little form of yellow dust 
Lies motionless and cold ! 

Oh, where amid the azure 

Hath thy sweet spirit fled ? 

I hold my breath and think I hear- 

Its music overhead. 

(286) 






A DIRGE FOR A DEAD BIRD. 287 

Death has not hushed thy spirit, 

Its joy shall vanish never; 
The slightest thrill of pleasure born 

Lives on and lives for ever ! 

Throughout the gloomy winter 

Thy soul shed joy in ours, 
As it told us of the summer-time 

Amid the land of flowers. 

But now thy songs are silent, 

Except what memory brings ; 
For thou hast folded death within 

The glory of thy wings ! 

And here thy resting-place shall be 

Beneath the garden bower ; 
A bush shall be thy monument, 

Thy epitaph a flower ! 



THE LAND OF THE WEST. 



Thou land whose deep forest was wide as the sea, 
And heaved its broad ocean of green to the day, 

Or, waked by the tempest, in terrible glee 

Flung up from its billows the leaves like a spray ; 

The swift birds of passage still spread their fleets there, 

Where sails the wild vulture, the pirate of air. 

Thou land whose dark streams, like a hurrying horde 
Of wilderness steeds without rider or rein, 

Swept down, owning Nature alone for their lord, 
Their foam flowing free on the air like a mane : — 

Oh ! grand were thy waters, which spurned as they ran 

The curb of the rock and the fetters of man 

(288) 



THE LAND OF THE WEST. 289 

Thou land whose bright blossoms, like shells of the sea, 
Of numberless shapes and of many a shade, 

Begemmed thy ravines where the hidden springs be, 
And crowned the black hair of the dark forest maid ; — 

Those flowers still bloom in the depth of the wild 

To bind the white brow of the pioneer's cliild. 

Thou land whose lost hamlets were circled with maize, 

And lay like a dream in the silence profound, 
While murmuring its song through the dark woodland 
ways 
The stream swept afar through the lone hunting- 
ground : — 
Now loud anvils ring in that wild forest home, 
And mill-wheels are dashing the waters to foam. 

Thou land when: the eagle of Freedom looked dowa 
From his eyried crag through the depths of the shade, 

Or mounted at morn where no daylight can drown 
The stars on their broad field of azure arrayed : — 

Still, still to thy banner that eagle is true, 

Encircled with stars on a heaven of blue ! 

25 



THE T\<ITHERING LEAVES. 



The summer is gone and the autumn is here, 
And the flowers are strewing their earthly bier; 
A dreary mist o'er the woodland swims, 
While rattle the nuts from the windy limbs : 
From bough to bough the squirrels run 
At the noise of the hunter's echoing gun, 
And the partridge flies where my footstep heaves 
The rustling drifts of the withering leaves. 

The flocks pursue their southern flight — 

Some all the day and some all night j 

And up from the wooded marshes come 

The sounds of the pheasant's feathery drum. 

(290) 



THE WITHERING LEAVES. 291 

On the highest bough the mourner crow- 
Sits in his funeral suit of woe : 
All nature mourns — and my spirit grieves 
At the noise of my feet in the withering leaves. 

Oh ! I sigh for the days that have passed away, 
When my life like the year had its season of May ; 

"Winn the world was all sunshine and beauty and truth, 
And the dew bat lied my feet in the valley of youth ! 
Then my heart felt its wings, and no bird of the sky 
Sang over the flowers more joyous than I. 
]>ut Youth is a fable, and Beauty deceives j — 
For my footsteps are loud in the withering leave-. 

And I sigh for the time when the reapers at morn 
Came down from the hill at the sound of the horn : 
Or when dragging the rake, 1 followed them out 
While they tossed the light sheaves with their laughter 

about j 
Through the held, with boy-daring, barefooted I ran; 
But the stubbles foreshadowed the path of the man. 
Now the upland- of life lie all barren of sheaves — 

While my footsteps are loud in the withering leaves! 



THE CLOSING SCENE, 



Within his sober realm of leafless trees 
The russet year inhaled the dreamy air ; 

Like some tanned reaper in his hour of ease, 
When all the fields are lying brown and bare. 

The gray barns looking from their hazy hills 
O'er the dim waters widening in the vales, 

Sent down the air a greeting to the mills, 
On the dull thunder of alternate flails. 



All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued, 
The hills seemed farther and the streams sang low; 

As in .a dream the distant woodman hewed 
His winter log with many a muffled blow. 

(202) 



THE CLOSING SCENE. 293 

The embattled forests, erewhile armed in gold, 
Their banners bright with every martial hue, 

Now stood, like some sad beaten host of old, 
Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue. 



On slumbrous wings the vulture held his flight; 

The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's complaint; 
And like a star slow drowning in the light, 

The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint. 

The sentinel-cock upon the hill-side crew — 
Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before, — 

Silent till some replying warder blew 

His alien horn, and then was heard no more. 

Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall crest, 

Blade garrulous trouble round her unfledged young, 

And where the oriole hung her swaying nest, 
By every light wind like a censer swung : — 

Where sang the noisy masons of the ca-. 

The busy swallows, circling ever near, 
Foreboding, as the rustic mind beli 

An early harvest and a plenteous year; — 



294 THE CLOSING SCENE. 

Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast, 
. aT ^ok the sweet slumber from its wings at morn, 

To warn the reaper of the rosy east, — ■ 
All now was songless, empty, and forlorn. 

Alone from out the stubble piped the quail, 

And croaked the crow through all the dreamy gloom ; 

Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale, 
Made echo to the distant cottage loom. 

There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers ) 

The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night ; 

The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, 
Sailed slowly by, passed noiseless out of sight. 

* 
Amid all this, in this most cheerless air, 

And where the woodbine shed upon the porch 

Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stood there 

Firing the floor with his inverted torch ; — 

Amid all this, the centre of the scene, 

The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread, 

Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien, 
Sat, like a Fate, and watched the flying thread. 



THE CLOSING SCENE. 295 

She had known Sorrow, — he had walked with her. 
Oft supped and broke the bitter ashen crust ; 

And in the dead leaves stilljhe heard the stir 
Of his black mantle trailing in the dust. 

"While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom, 
Her country summoned and she gave her all ) 

And twice War bowed to her his sable plume — 
Eegavc the swords to rust upon her wall. 

Regavc the swords, — but not the hand that drew 

And struck for Liberty its dying blow, 
Nor him who, to his sire and country true, 

Fell 'mid the ranks of the invading foe. 

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, 
Like the low murmur of a hive at noon ; 

Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone 

Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune. 

At last the thread was snapped — her head was bowed ; 

Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene,— 
And loving neighbours smoothed her careful shroud, 

While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene. 



-^ 



PIONEERS OF ART. 



"Why repine, oh, labouring spirit, 
That the shadow dulls thy track, 

While the old primeval forests 
Rise before ye huge and black ? 

It were better thus to suffer, 
While the harvest lies before, 

Than to glean through fields of stubble, 
Where the masters reaped of yore. 

I have seen in waking visions 

The rich dome of Art expand, 

Till the antique world in wonder 

Saw it overspread the land j — 

(296) 



PIONEERS OF ART. 297 

And I thought, as it went rounding 

O'er our western forest homes, 
It were better there to labour 

Than to dream in ancient domes. 



Oh, ye pilgrims unto ashes 

Of the past — beyond the sea — 

Better that ye sought the future, 
And the millions yet to be. 

Ye who kneel beside the buried, 

Wasting energies divine, 
Better rise to present action, 

That your graves may be a shrine. 

Every hill and vale of Europe 
Holds its temple and its tomb, 

And the names crowd every column, 
Till no longer there is room. 



Every bower and hall is whitened 
With the statues' marble light, 

And the walls are starred with pictures 
From the ancient men of might. 



298 PIONEERS OF ART. 

But our glorious hills and valleys 
In their silent grandeur bloom, 

And their unencumbered bosoms 
Say unto us, " here is room." 

Incomplete our halls and temples, 
Half-way tenanted and vain, 

While they want those silent people 
Issued full-grown from the brain. 



Ye on whom the love of beauty 
Hath descended to the heart, 

In the present build the future — 
Be ye Pioneers of Art ! 



THE PILGRIM TO THE LAND OF SONG. 



The dews arc dry upon my sandal-shoon 

Which bathed them on the foreign hills of song, 

And now beneath the white and sultry noon 

They print the dust which they may wear too long. 

The flowers by delicate fingers wove at morn 

Around my pilgrim staff have paled and died, 

Or dropped into the sand, and lie forlorn, 

Mute orphans of the airy mountain side. 

(299) 



tOO THE PILGRIM TO THE LAND OE SONG. 

The mingled music in the early gale, 

Of bees and birds, and maidens among flowers, 

The brooks, like shepherds, piping down the vale, 
For these my heart remounts the morning hours. 

Oh, that I might reclimb the dewy dawn, 
And with the stars sit down by Castalie, 

And be once more within the shade withdrawn, 
Mantled with music and with Poesy. 

Thou blessed bird between me and the heaven, 
Thou winged censer, swinging through the air 

With incense of pure song, — how hast thou driven 
One to the past, that may not linger there ! 

Oh, for one wild annihilating hour, 

Spent with the minstrels of a loftier time ; 

Those giants among bards, whose high songs tower 
Full many a rood o'er all our new sublime. 

Oh, for an hour with Chaucer, the divine, 
The morning star of English song confessed ; 

Ushering a day whose slow but sure decline 
Fades with a fitful glimmering in the west. 



THE PILGRIM TO THE LAND OF SONG. 301 

Oh, for that rare auroral time, which brought 
The light of Shakespeare, and the glorious few, 

Who, in their glowing robes of deathless thought, 
Strode knee-deep through Parnassian flowers and dew. 

The hot sands gleam around me, and I thirst, — 
The wayside springs have sunk into themselves; 

And even the little blossoms which they nursed, 
Have vanished from their side, like faithless elves. 

Whence lead the sandy courses of these rills ? 

Do they foretell a mightier stream at hand, 
With voice triumphant, worthy of these hills ? 

Where are thy rivers, oh, my native land ? 

A few brave souls have sparkled into sight, 

With living flashes of celestial art ; 
Souls who might flood the world with new delight, 

Keep sealed the deepest fountains of the heart. 

Oh, for a cloud to oversweep the west, 

And with a deluge burst these deeper springs, — 

A voiceful cloud, with grandeur in its breast, 
And lightning on its far impending wings. 
26 



302 THE PILGRIM TO THE LAND OF SONG. 

Oh, for one mighty heart and fearless hand ! 

For such, inethinks, my country, is thy due, — 
The embodied spirit of his forest land, 

Who, scorning not the old, shall sing the new. 

Here will I rest until the day declines, 

A voiceless pilgrim toward the land of song ; 

And, like a sentinel, catch the herald signs 

Of him whose coming hath been stayed too long. 



A CUP OF WINE TO THE OLD YEAR. 



Come hither, love, come hither, 

And sit you down by me ; 
And hither run, my little one, 

And climb upon my knee. 
But bring the flagon first, my love, 

And fill to friends and foes, 

And let the old year dash his beard 

With wine before he goes. 

(303) 



304 



A CUP OF WINE TO THE OLD YEAR. 



II. 



Oh, do you not remember 

The night we let him in, 
The creaking signs, the windy blinds, 

The universal din j — 
The melancholy sounds which bade 

The poor old year adieu ; 
The sudden clamour and the bells 

That welcomed in the new ? 
He brought to us a world of hope 

Beneath his robe of snows : — 
Then let the old year dash his beard 

"With wine before he goes. 

in. 



Oh, then the year was young and fair, 

And loved all joyful things ; 
And under his bright mantle hid 

The warning of his wings. 
And you remember how the Spring 

Beguiled him to her bowers ; — 
How Summer next exalted him 

Unto her throne of flowers ; — 



A CUP OF WINE TO THE OLD YEAR. 305 

And how the reaper, Autumn, crowned 

Him ; mid the sheaves and shocks, — 
You still may see the tangled straws 

In his disordered locks. 
The yellow wheat, the crimson leaves, 

With purple grapes, were there ; 
Till, Bacchus-like, he wore the proof 

Of plenty 'mid his hair — 
A proof that wooes in harvest-homes 

Brown Labour to repose : — 
Then let the old year dash his beard 

With wine before he goes. 



IV. 

But soon the Winter came and took 

His glory quite away : 
A frosty rime o'erspread his chin, 

And all his hair went gray ; 
His crown has fallen to his feet, 

And withers where he stands, 
While some invisible horror shakes 

The old man by the hands. 
>G * 



306 A CUP OF WINE TO THE OLD YEAR. 

Oh, woo him from his cloud of grief 
And from his dream of woes ; 

And bid the old year dash his beard 
With wine before he goes. 



v. 

For he hath brought us some new friends, 

And made the old more dear ', 
And shown how love may constant prove, 

And friendship be sincere. 
Though it may be some venomed tooth 

Hath wrought against the file ; 
And though perchance a Janus' face 

Hath cursed us with its smile : — 
Come, fill the goblet till its rim 

With Lethe overflows ; 
The year shall drown their memory 

With wine before he goes. 



VI. 



But hark ! a music nears and nears, — 

As if the sinking stars 
Were driving closer to the earth. 

In their triumphal cars ! 



A CUP OF WINE TO THE OLD YEAR. 307 

And hark ! the sudden pealing crash 

Of one who will not wait, 
But flings into the ringing dark 

Old Winter's crystal gate. 
A sigh is on the midnight air, — 

A ghost is on the lawn, — 
The broken goblet strews the floor, — 

The poor old year is gone ! 



THE AWAKENING YEAR. 



The blue-birds and the violets 

Are with us once again, 
And promises of summer spot 

The hill-side and the plain. 

The clouds around the mountain tops 

Are riding on the breeze, 
Their trailing azure trains of mist 

Are tangled in the trees. 

The snow-drifts, which have lain so long, 

Haunting the hidden nooks, 

Like guilty ghosts have slipped away, 

Unseen, into the brooks. 

(308) 



THE AWAKENING YEAR. 309 

The streams are fed with generous rains, 

They drink the wayside springs, 
And flutter down from crag to crag, 

Upon their foamy wings. 

Through all the long wet nights they brawl, 

By mountain homes remote, 
Till woodmen in their sleep behold 

Their ample rafts afloat. 

The lazy wheel that hung so dry 

Above the idle stream, 
Whirls wildly in the misty dark, 

And through the miller's dream. 

Loud torrent unto torrent calls, 

Till at the mountain's feet, 
Flashing afar their spectral light, 

The noisy waters meet. 

They meet, and through the lowlands sweep, 

Toward briny bay and lake, 
Proclaiming to the distant towns 

''The country is awake P' 



PROLOGUE TO AN UNPUBLISHED SERIO- 
COMIC POEM. 

INSCRIBED TO GEO. H. BOKER. 



I. 

Dear friend, while now the dews are shed 
Along the vintage crowned Rhine ; 

And day departs with purple tread, 
Fresh dripping from the land of wine : 

Here, o'er a flask of Rudesheiin, 

Your shade with me shall drain the bowl, 
While in this passing cup of rhyme 

I pour the fulness of my soul. 

And you shall drain as I have drained 

The golden goblet of your song, 

Till in my heart a pleasure reigned, 

Like Bacchus J mid his wreathed throng. 

(310) 



PROLOGUE. 311 

IT. 

And blame me not, that while she sings 
My Muse not always strives to soar ; — 

If, folding her o'erwearied wings, 
She warbles when her flight is o'er. 

It may be that more oft than well 

I've woke the melancholy lyre ; 
Then frown not if I break the spell, 

And touch at times a lighter wire. 

If it has been my wont to quaff 

And drain the chalice' darker tide, 
What marvel, if I stop and laugh 

To see the satyrs on its side ? 

in. 

What, though you bid me hoard my hours, 

And say you see my life-star pale, 
Have I not walked amid the flowers 

That bloom in the enchanted vale I 

Though I had, on a lotus bed, 

Dreamed the wild dreams that few may dare, 
Till the o'ershadowiug laurel shed 

Its leaves of poison on my hair ; 



312 PROLOGUE. 

I do believe the gods are just, — 

They will not break the unfinished chord, 

Nor dash the goblet in the dust 
Until its latest draught be poured. 

IV. 

Then fill, dear friend, again immerse 
The lip that shall approve the rhyme ; 

A richer beauty gilds the verse 

When seen through cups of Eudesheim. 

And if within my tuneful task 
I wake too oft the mournful note, 

Then pour again the golden flask, 
For it has laughter in its throat. 

And while I deem you sit and quaff, 

I shall no longer be alone, 
Nor think my dusty pack and staff 

My sole companions in Cologne. 



VENICE 



i. 



Night on the Adriatic, night ! 

And like a mirage of the plain, 
With all her marvellous domes of light, 

Pale Venice looms along the main. 

No sound from the receding shore, — 
No sound from all the broad lagoon, 

Save where the light and springing oar 
Brightens our track beneath the moon : — 

Or save where yon high campanile 

Gives to the listening sea its chime; 

Or where those dusky giants wheel 

And smite the ringing helm of Time. 
27 (013) 



314 



VENICE. 



'Tis past, — and Venice drops to rest; 

Alas ! hers is a sad repose, 
While in her brain and on her breast 

Tramples the vision of her foes. 

Erewhile from her sad dream of pain 

She rose upon her native flood, 
And struggled with the Tyrant's ehain, 

Till every link was stained with blood. 

The Austrian pirate, wounded, spurned, 
Fled howling to the sheltering shore, 

But, gathering all his crew, returned 

And bound the Ocean Queen once more. 

; Tis past, — and Venice prostrate lies, — 
And, snarling round her couch of woes, 

The watch-dogs, with the jealous eyes, 
Scowl where the stranger comes or goes. 

II. 

Lo ! here awhile suspend the oar ; 

Rest in the Mocenigo's shade, 
For G-enius hath within this door 

His charmed, though transient, dwelling made. 






VENICE. 315 

Somewhat of u Harold's" spirit yct ? 

Methinks, still lights these crumbling halls; 
For where the flame of song is set 

It burns, though all the temple falls. 

Oh, tell me not those days were given 

To Passion and her pampered brood ; 
Or that the eagle stoops from heaven 

To dye his talons deep in blood. 

I hear alone his deathless strain 

From sacred inspiration won, 
As I would only watch again 

The eagle when he nears the sun. 



in. 



Oh, would some friend were near me now, 
Some friend well tried and cherished long, 

To share the scene; — but chiefly thou, 
Sole source and object of my song. 



By Olivola's dome and tower, 

What joy to clasp thy hand in mine, 

While through my heart this sacred hour 
Thy v«ice should melt like mellow wine. 



316 VENICE. 

What time or place so fit as this 
To bid the gondolier withhold, 

And dream through one soft age of bliss 
The olden story, never old ? 

The domes suspended in the sky 
Swim all above me broad and fair; 

And in the wave their shadows lie, — - 
Twin phantoms of the sea and air. 

O'er all the scene a halo plays, 
Slow fading, but how lovely yet 

For here the brightness of past days 
Still lingers, though the sun is set. 

Oft in my bright and boyish hours 
I lived in dreams what now I live 7 

And saw these palaces and towers 
In all the light romance can give. 

They rose along my native stream, 

They charmed the lakelet in the glen ; 

But in this hour the waking dream 

More frail and dream-like seems than then. 



! 



VENICE. 317 

A matchless scene, a matchless night, 

A tide below, a moon above; 
An hour for music and delight; 

For gliding gondolas and love ! 

But here, alas ! you hark in vain, — 

When Venice fell her music died ; 
And voiceless as a funeral train, 

The blackened barges swim the tide. 

The harp, which Tasso loved to wake, 
Hangs on the willow where it sleeps, 

And while the light strings sigh or break, 
Pale Venice by the water weeps. 

IV. 

'Tis past, — and weary droops the wing 

That thus hath borne me idly on ; 
The thoughts I have essayed to sing 

Arc but as bubbles touched and gone. 

But Venice, cold his soul must be, 

"Who, looking on thy beauty, hears 

The story of thy wrongs, if he 

Is moved to neither song nor tears. 
27* 



118 VENICE. 

To glide by temples fair and proud, 
Between deserted marble walls, 

Or see the hireling foeman crowd 
Rough-shod her noblest palace halls ; 

To know her left to Vandal foes 

Until her nest be robbed and gone, — 

To see her bleeding breast, which shows 
How dies the Adriatic swan ; — 

To know that all her wings are shorn ; 

That Fate has written her decree, 
That soon the nations here shall mourn 

The lone Palmyra of the sea ; — 

"Where waved her vassal flags of yore 
By valour in the Orient won ; 

To see the Austrian vulture soar, 
A blot against the morning sun; — 

To hear a rough and foreign speech 
Commanding the old ocean mart, — 

Are mournful sights and sounds that reach, 
And wake to pity, all the heart. 



NIGHTFALL. 



IN MEMORY OF A POET. 



I saw in the silent afternoon 

The overladen sun go down ; 
While, in the opposing sky, the moon, 

Between the steeples of the town, 

Went upward, like a golden scale 

Outweighed by that which sank beyond; 

And over the river, and over the vale, 
With odours from the lily -pond, 

The purple vapours calmly swung ; 

And, gathering in the twilight trees, 
The many vesper minstrels sung 

Their plaintive mid-day memories, 



(819) 



o20 NIGHTFALL. 

Till, one by one, they dropped away 
From music into slumber deep ; 

And now the very woodlands lay 

Folding their shadowy wings in sleep. 

Oh, Peace ! that like a vesper psalm 
Hallows the daylight at its close ; 

Oh, Sleep ! that like the vapour's calm 
Mantles the spirit in repose, — 

Through all the twilight falling dim, 

Through all the song which passed away, 

Ye did not stoop your wings to him 
Whose shallop on the river lay 

Without an oar, without a helm ; — 
His great soul in his marvellous eyes 

Gazing on from realm to realm 

Through all the world of mysteries ! 



THE ALCHEMIST'S DAUGHTER. 
A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 



PERSONS REPRESENTED. 

Giacomo, the Alchemist. 

Bernardo, his son-in-law. 

Rosalia, his daughter and Bernardo's wife. 

Lorenzo, his servant. 

SCENE I. FERRARA. 

The interior q/'GlACOHo's house. Giacomo and Lorenzo dii 

covered together. Time, a little he/ore daybreak. 



Art sure of this ? 

• LORENZO. 

Ay, signor, very sure. 

'Tis but a moment since I saw the thing; 

Bernardo, who last night was sworn thy son, 

Hath made a villanous barter of thine honour : 

Thou mayest rely the Duke is where I said. 

(321) 



329 



THE ALCHEMIST S DAUGHTER. 



GIACOMjO. 

If so — no matter — give me here the light. 

[Exit Giacomo. 
lorenzo [alone). 

Oh, what a night ! It must be all a dream ! 
For twenty years, since that I wore a beard, 
I've served my melancholy master here, 
And never until now saw such a night ! 
A wedding in this silent house, forsooth, — 
A festival ! The very walls in mute 
Amazement stared through the unnatural light : 
And poor Rosalia, bless her tender heart, 
Looked like her mother's sainted ghost ! Ah me, 
Her mother died long years ago, and took 
One-half the blessed sunshine from our house — 
The other half was married off last night. 
My master, solemn soul, he walked the halls 
As if in search of something which was lost; 
The groom (I like not him, nor ever did) 
Spake such perpetual sweetness, till I thought 
He wore some sugared villany within : — 
But then he is my master's ancient friend, 
And always known the favourite of the Duke, 
And, as I know, our lady's treacherous lord ! 
Oh, Holy Mother, that to villain hawks 
Our dove should fall a prey ! poor gentle dear ! 



THE ALCHEMIST'S DAUGHTER. 0U0 

Now, if I had their necks within my grasp, 

These fingers should be adders at their throats ! 

No matter — if my master be himself, 

Nor time, nor place, shall bind up his revenge. 

He's not a man to spend his wrath in noise, 

But when his mind is made, with even pace 

He walks up to the deed and does his will. 

In fancy I can see him to the end — 

The Duke, perchance, already breathes his last, 

And for Bernardo — he "will join him soon; 

And for Rosalia, she will take the veil, 

To which she hath been heretofore inclined; 

And for my master, he will take again 

To alchemy — a pastime well enough, 

For aught I know, and honest Christian work. 

Still it was strange how my poor mistress died, 

Found, as she was, within her husband's study. 

The rumour went she died of suffocation ; 

Some cursed crucible wdiich had been left, 

By Giacomo, aburning, filled the room, 

And when the lady entered took her breath. 

He found her there, and from that day the place 

Has been a home for darkness and for dust. 

I hear him coming; by his hurried step 

There's something done, or will be very soon. 



324 the alchemist's daughter. 

Enter Giacomo. [lie sets the light upon the table, and confronts 
Lorenzo with a stem look.) 

GIACOMO. 

Lorenzo, thou hast served me twenty years, 
And faithfully; now answer me, how was't 
That thou wert in the street at such an hour ? 

BERNARDO. 

When that the festival was o'er last night, 
I went to join some comrades in their wine, 
To pass the time in memory of the event. 

GIACOMO. 

And doubtless thou wert blinded soon with drink ? 

BERNARDO. 

Indeed, good signor, though the wine flowed free, 
I could not touch it, though much urged by all — 
Too great a sadness sat upon my heart — 
I could do nought but sit and sigh and think 
Of our Rosalia in her bridal dress. 

GIACOMO. 

And sober, too ! so much the more at fault. 
But, as I said, thou'st served me long and well, 
Perchance too long — too long by just a day. 
Here, take this purse, and find another master. 



THE ALCHEMIST'S DAUGHTER. 325 

LORENZO. 

Oh, signor, do not drive me thus away ! 
If I have made mistake — 

GIACOMO. 

No, sirrah, no ! 
Thou hast not made mistake, but something worse. 

LORENZO. 

Oh, pray you, what is that then I have made ? 

GIACOMO. 

A lie! 

LORENZO. 

Indeed, good master, on my knees 
I swear that what I said is sainted truth. 

GIACOMO. 

Pshaw, pshaw ! no more of this. Did I not go 
Upon the instant to my daughter's room, 
And find Bernardo sleeping at her side ? 
Some villain's gold hath bribed thee unto this. 
Go, go. 

LORENZO. 

"Well, if it must be, then it must. 
But I would swear that what I said is truth, 
Though all the devils from the deepest pit 

Should rise to contradict me ! 

28 



326 THE alchemist's daughter. 

GIACOMO. 

Prating still ? 

LORENZO. 

No, signor — I am going — stay — see tare — 
(He draws a paper from his bosom.) 
Oh, blessed Virgin, grant some proof in this ! 
This paper, as they changed their mantles, dropped 
Between them to the ground, and when they passed 
I picked it up, and placed it safely here. 

giacomo (examining it). 
Who forged the lie could fabricate this too : — 
Get to thy duties, sir, and mark me well, 
Let no word pass thy lips about the matter. 

[Exit Lorexzo, 
Bernardo's very hand indeed is here ! 
Oh, compact villanous and black ! Conditions, 
The means, the hour, the signal — everything 
To rob my honour of its holiest pearl ! 
Lorenzo, shallow fool — he does not guess 
The mischief was all done, and that it was 
The Duke he saw departing — oh, brain — brain ! 
How shall I hold this river of my wrath ! 
It must not burst — no, rather it shall sweep 
A noiseless maelstrom, whirling to its centre 
All thoughts and plans to further niy revenge, 
And rid me of this most accursed blot ! 






THE ALCIIEMIST'S DAUGHTER. 327 

[He rests his forehead on his hand afeio minutes, and exclaims,) 

The past returns to me again — the lore 
I gladly had forgot, comes like a ghost, 
And points with shadowy finger to the means 
Which best shall consummate my just design 
The laboratory hath been closed too long; 
The door smiles welcome to me once again, 
The dusky latch invites my hand — I come ! 

(lie unlocks the door and stands upon the threshold.) 

Oh thou, whose life was stolen from me here, 
Stand not to thwart me in this great revenge; 
IJut rather come with large propitious 
Smiling encouragement with bygone looks; 
Ye sages, whose pale, melancholy 
Gaze through the darkm bs of a thousand years, 
Oli, pierce the solid blackness of to-day, 
And fire anew this oruoible of thought 
Until my soul flames up to the result ! 

[Bt < ittus, and (he d<»>r doses.) 



SCENE II. Another apartment in the alchemisfs house. 
Rosalia and Bernardo. 



.I.IA. 

You tell me he has not been seen to-day ? 



328 the alchemist's daughter. 

BERNARDO. 

Save by your trusty servant here, who says 

He saw his master, from without, unclose 

The shutters of his laboratory while 

The sun was yet unrisen. It is well ; 

This turning to the past pursuits of youth 

Argues how much the aspect of to-day 

Hath driven the ancient darkness from his brain. 

And now, my clear Rosalia, let thy face 

And thoughts and speech be drest in summer smiles, 

And nought shall make a winter in our house. 

ROSALIA. 

Ah, sir, I think that I am happy ! 

BERXARDO . 

Happy ? 
Why so, indeed, dear love, I trust thou art ! 
But thou dost sigh and look along the floor 
So vaguely, that thy happiness seems rather 
The constant sense of duty than true joy. 

ROSALIA. 

Nay, chide me not, good sir ; the world to me 
A riddle is at best — my heart has had 
No tutor. From my childhood until now 
My thoughts have been on simple honest things. 



THE ALCHEMIST'S DAUGHTER. 329 

BERNARDO. 

On honest things ? Then let them dwell henceforth 
On love, for nothing is more honest than 
True love. 

ROSALIA. 

I hope so, sir — it must he so ! 
And if to wear thy happiness at heart 
With constant watchfulness, and if to breathe 
Thy welfare in my orisons, he love, 
Thou never shalt have cause to question mine. 
To-day I feel, and yet I know not why, 
A sadness which I never knew before; 
A puzzling shadow swims upon my brain, 
Of something which has been or is to be. 
My mother coming to me in my dream, 
My father taking to that room again, 
Have somehow thrilled me with mysterious awe. 

BERNARDO. 

Nay, let not that o'crcast thy gentle mind : 

For dreams are but as floating gossamer, 

And should not blind or bar the steady reason ; 

And alchemy is innocent enough, 

Save when it feeds too greedily on gold, 

A crime the world not easily forgives. 

]>ut if Rosalia likes not the pursuit 

Her sire engages in, my plan shall be 
28* 



To lead hhn quietly to other things. 
But see, the door uncloses and he comes. 

[Enter Giacomo in loose gown and dishevelled hair.) 

giacomo [not perceiving them). 
Ha, precious villains, ye are caught at last ! 



Good morrow, father. 



GIACOMO. 

Ah, my pretty doves ! 

BERNARDO. 

Come, father, we are jealous of the art 
Which hath deprived us all the day of thee. 

GIACOMO. 

Are ye indeed ? (Aside.) How smoothly to the air 
Slides that -word father from his slippery tongue ! 
Come hither, daughter, let me gaze on thee; 
For I have dreamed that thou wert beautiful, 
So beautiful our very Duke did stop 
To smile upon thy brightness ! What say'st thou, 
Bernardo, didst thou ever dream such things ? 

BERNARDO. 

That she is beautiful I had no cause 

To dream. Mine eyes have known it many a day 



THE ALCHEMIST'S DAUGHTER. 331 

What villains didst thou speak of even now ? 

GIACOMO. 

Two precious villains — Carbon and Azote — 
They have perplexed me heretofore ; but now 
The thing is plain enough. This morning, ere 
I left my chamber, all the mystery stood 
Asudden in an awful revelation ! 

BERNARDO. 

I'm glad success has crowned thy task to-day; 
But do not overtoil thy brain. These themes 
Are dangerous things, and they who mastered most 
Have fallen at last but victims to their slaves. 

GIACOMO. 

It is a glorious thing to fall and die 
The victim of a noble cause. 

BERNARDO. 

Ay, true — 
The man who battles for his country's right 
Hath compensation in the world's applause ; 
The victor when returning from the field 
Is crowned with laurel, and his shining way 
Is full of shouts and roses. If he fall, 
His nation builds his monument of glory. 
But mark the alchemist who walks the streets : 



332 the alchemist's daughter. 

His look is down, his step infirm, his hair 
And cheeks are burned to ashes by his thought; 
The volumes he consumes, consume in turn ; 
They are but fuel to his fiery brain, 
Which being fed requires the more to feed on. 
The people gaze on him with curious looks, 
And step aside to let him pass untouched, 
Believing Satan hath him arm in arm. 

GIACOMO. 

Are there no wrongs but what a nation feels ? 
No heroes but among the martial throng ? 
Nay, there are patriot souls who never grasped 
A sword, or heard the crowd applaud their names, 
Who lived and laboured, died and were forgot, 
And after whom the world came out and reaped 
The field, and never questioned who had sown. 

BERNARDO. 

I did not think of that. 

GIACOMO. 

Now mark ye well, 
I am not one to follow phantom themes, 
To waste my time in seeking for the stone, 
Or crystallizing carbon to o'erflood 
The world with riches which would keep it poor; 



THE ALCHEMIST'S DAUGHTER. 333 

Nor do I seek the elixir that would make 

Not life alone, but misery immortal ; 

But something far more glorious than these. 

BERXARDO. 

Pray what is that ? 

GIACOMO. 

A cure, sir, for the heartache. 
Come, thou shalt see. The day is on the wane — 
Mark how the moon, as by some unseen arm, 
Is thrust towards heaven like a bloody shield ! 
On such an hour the experiment must begin. 
Come, thou shalt be the first to witness this 
Most marvellous discovery. And thou, 
My pretty one, betake thee to thy bower, 
And I will dream thou'rt lovelier than ever. 
Come, follow me. (2o Bernardo.') 



Nay, father, stay; I'm sure 
Thou art not well — thine eyes are strangely lit; 
The task, I fear, has overworked thy brain. 

GIACOMO. 

Dearest Rosalia, what were eyes or brain 
Compared with banishment of sorrow ? Come. 



334 the alchemist's daughter. 

bernardo (aside to Rosalia). 
I will indulge awhile this Curious humour; 
Adieu ; I shall be with thee soon again. 

giacomo (overhearing Mm). 
When Satan shall regain his wings, and sit 
Approved in heaven, perchance, but not till then. 

BERXARDO. 

What, " not till then V 

GIACOJIO. 

Shall he be worthy deemed 
To walk, as thou hast said the people thought, 
Linked with the mighty-souled philosopher : — 
And yet the people sometimes are quite right — 
The devil's at our elbow oftener than 
We know. 

(He gives Berxardo Ms arm, and tliey enter the laboratory). 

rosalia (alone). 
He never looked so strange before ; 
His cheeks are suddenly grown pale and thin ; 
His very hair seems whiter than it did. 
Oh, surely, 'tis a fearful trade that crowds 
The work of years into a single day. 
It may be that the sadness which I wear 
Hath clothed him in its own peculiar hue. 



THE ALCHEMIST'S DAUGHTER. 335 

The very sunshine of this cloudless morn 

Seemed but a world of broad, white desolation — 

While in my ears small melancholy bells 

Knolled their long, solemn and prophetic chime ; — 

But hark ! a louder and a holier toll, 

Shedding its benediction on the air, 

Proclaims the vesper hour — Ave Maria . 

[Exit Rosalia. 

SCENE III. Giacomo and Bernardo discovered in tlie 

laboratory. 

GIACOMO. 

What sayest thou now ; Bernardo 'i 

BERNARDO. 

Let me live 
Or die in drawing this delicious breath, 
I ask no more. 

giacomo (aside). 

Mark, how with wondering eyes 
He gazes on the burning crucibles, 
As if to drink the rising vapour with 
His every sense. 

BERNARDO. 

Is this the balm thou spak'st of? 



GIAC01I0. 



Ay, sir, the same. 



BERNARDO. 

Oh, would that now my heart 
Were torn with every grief the earth has known, 
Then would this sense be sweeter by tenfold ! 
Where didst thou learn the secret, and from whom ? 

GIACOMO. 

From G-ebber down to Paracelsus, none 
Have mentioned the discovery of this — 
The need of it was parent of the thought. 

BERNARDO. 

How long will these small crucibles hold out ? 



A little while, but there are two beside, 

That when thy sense is toned up to the point 

May then be fired; and when thou breath'st their fumes, 

Nepenthe deeper it shall seem than that 

Which Helen gave the guests of Menelaus. 

But come, thou'lt weary of this thickening air ; 

Let us depart. 

BERNARDO. 

Not for the wealth of worlds ! 



THE ALCHEMIST'S DAUGHTER. 337 

GIACOJIO. 

Nay, but thy bride awaits thee — 

BERNARDO. 

Go to her, 
And say I shall be there anon. 

GIACOMO. 

I will. 

(Aside.) Now while he stands enchained within the spell, 
I'll to Rosalia's room and don his cloak 
And cap, and sally forth to meet the Duke. 
'Tis now the hour, and if he come — so be it. 

[Exit Giacomo. 

BERNARDO (alone). 

These delicate airs seem wafted from the fields 

Of some celestial world. I am alone — 

Then wherefore not inhale that deeper draught, 

That sweet Nepenthe which these other two, 

When burning, shall dispense ? 'Twcrc quickly done, 

And I will do it ! 

{IL- places the two crucibles on the furnace.) 

Now, Sir Alchemist, 

Linger as long as it may suit thy pleasure — 

'Tis mine to tarry here. Oh, by St. Johu, 

I'll turn philosopher myself, aud do 
29 



338 the alchemist's daughter. 



Some good at last in this benighted world ! 

Now how like demons on the ascending smoke, 

Making grimaces, leaps the laughing flame, 

Filling the room with a mysterious haze, 

Which rolls and writhes along the shadowy air, 

Taking a thousand strange, fantastic forms ', 

And every form is lit with burning eyes, 

Which pierce me through and through like fiery arrows ! 

The dim walls grow unsteady, and I seem 

To stand upon a reeling deck ! Hold, hold ! 

A hundred crags are toppling overhead. 

I faint, I sink — now, let me clutch that limb — 

Oh, devil ! It breaks to ashes in my grasp ! 

What ghost is that which beckons through the mist ? 

The Duke ! the Duke ! and bleeding at the breast ! 

Whose dagger struck the blow ? 

[Enter Giacomo.) 

giacomo. 

Mine, villain, mine ! 
What ! thou'st set the other two aburning ! 
Impatient dog, thou cheat'st me to the last ! 
I should have done the deed — and yet 'tis well, 
Thou diest by thine own dull hardihood ! 

BERNARDO. 

Ha ! is it so ? Then follow thou ! 



THE ALCHEMIST'S DAUGHTER. 339 

GIACOMO. 

My time 
Is not quite yet ; this antidote shall place 
A bar between us for a little while. 

(He raises a phial to his lips, drinks, and flings it aside.) 

Bernardo (rallying). 
Come, give it me — 

GIACOMO. 

Ha ; ha ! I drained it all ! 
There is the broken phial. 

ARDO. 

Is there no arm 
To save me from the abyss ? 

GIACOMO. 

No, villain, sink ! 
And take this cursed record of thy plot, 

(He thrusts a paper into Bernardo's hand.) 
And it shall gain thee speedy entrance at 
The infernal gate ! 

(Bernardo reads, reels, and falls.) 

giacomo (looking on the body). 
Poor, miserable dust ! 
This body now is honest as the best, 



340 the alchemist's daughter. 

The very best of earth, lie .where it may. 

My mantle must conceal the thing from sight ; 

For soon Rosalia, as I bade her, shall 

Be here. Oh, Heaven ! vouchsafe to me the power 

To do this last stern act of justice. Thou 

Who calledst the child of Jairus from the dead, 

Assist a stricken father now to raise 

His sinless daughter from the bier of shame; 

And may her soul, unconscious of the deed, 

For ever walk the azure fields of heaven. 

Enter Rosalia, dressed in simple white, hearing a small golden 
crucifix in her hand. 

ROSALIA. 

Dear father, in obedience, I have come — 
But where' s Bernardo? 

GIACOMO. 

Gone to watch the stars ; 
To see old solitary Saturn whirl 
Like poor Ixion on his burning wheel — 
He is our patron orb to-night, my child. 

ROSALIA. 

I do not know what strange experiment 
Thou'dst have me see, but in my heart I feel 
That He, in whose remembrance this was made, 

{Looking at the cross.) 



THE ALCHEMIST'S DAUGHTER. 341 

Should be chief patron of our thoughts and acts. 
Since vesper time — I know not how it was — 
I could do nought but kneel and tell my prayers. 

GIACOMO. 

Ye blessed angels, hymn the word to heaven. 
Come, daughter, let me hold thy hand in mine, 
And gaze upon the emblem which thou bcarcst. 
(He looks upon the crucifix awhile and presses it to his lij)s.) 

ROSALIA. 

Pray tell me, father, what is in the air ? 

GIACOMO. 

Seest thou the crucibles, my child ? Now mark, 
I'll drop a simple essence into each. 

ROSALIA. 

My sense is flooded with perfume ! 

GIACOMO. 

Again. 

ROSALIA. 

My soul, asuddcn, thrills with such delight 
It seems as it had won a birth of wings ! 

GIACOMO. 

Behold, now when I throw these jewels in, 
29* 



342 the alchemist's daughter. 

The glories of our art ! 

ROSALIA. 

A cloud of hues 
As beautiful as morning fills the air ; 
And every breath I draw comes freighted with 
Elysian sweets ! An iris-tinted mist, 
In perfumed wreaths, is rolling round the room. 
The very walls are melting from my sight, 
And surely, father, there's the sky o'erhead ! 
And on that gentle breeze did we not hear 
The song of birds and silvery waterfalls ? 
And walk we not on green and flowery ground ? 
Ferrara, father, hath no ground like this ; 
The ducal gardens are not half so fair ! 
Oh, if this be the golden land of dreams, 
Let us for ever make our dwelling here. 
Not lovelier in my earliest visions seemed 
The paradise of our first parents, filled 
With countless angels, whose celestial light 
Thrilled the sweet foliage like a gush of song. 
Look how the long and level landscape gleams, 
And with a gradual pace goes mellowing up 
Into the blue ! The very ground we tread 
Seems flooded with the tender hue of heaven j 



THE ALCHEMIST'S DAUGHTER. 343 

An azure lawn is all about our feet, 

And sprinkled with a thousand gleaming flowers. 

6IAC0H0. 

Nay, dear Rosalia, cast thy angel ken 

Far down the shining pathway we have trod, 

And see behind us those enormous gates 

To which the world has given the name of Death; 

And note the least among yon knot of lights, 

And recognise your native orb, the earth ! 

For we are spirits threading fields of space, 

Whose gleaming flowers are but the countless stars ! 

But now, dear love, adieu — a flash from heaven — 

A sudden glory in the silent air — 

A rustle as of wings proclaims the approach 

Of holier guides to take thee into keep. 

Behold them gliding down the azure hill, 

Making the blue ambrosial with their light ! 

Our paths are here divided. I must go 

Through other ways, by other forms attended. 



A VISION OF DEATH. 



AN EXTRACT. 



{An Old Man discovered in a country grave-yard.) 

OLD MAN. 

Beneath this simple mound lies much, how much ! 

That living made earth lovelier, and was 

The throne and crown unto my own sad world 

Of Love and Hope, which make the total sum 

Of all that man calls happiness. Bloom, bloom, 

Ye little blossoms ! and if beauty can, 

Like other purest essences, exhale 

And penetrate the mould, your flowers shall be 

Of rarest hue and perfume. I would see 

(344) 



A VISION OF DEATH. 345 

Ye in a fair inscription gild her dust 

With thoughts no mortal hand shall dare. And you, 

Ye little winged choirs of air, who chant 

From over-fulness of the heart, as do 

The winds which breathe upon the rustling grass, 

Or roar along the ocean, till his waves 

Thunder and hiss in foamy cataracts, — 

Chant ye to-day and to all coining time, 

Without the aid of burnished instrument. 

The hollow organ of a seventh-day pile, 

But from your hearts with well-accustomed throats, 

Which loud from Sabbath unto Sabbath make 

Perpetual worship, pour a requiem for 

The early lost, or rather say removed. 

Would I might follow ! wherefore do I stay ? 

Can there still be in this poor tottering frame, 

Which usurous Time has long since bankrupt made, 

Aught which can make it valuable to life ? 

This palsied head of its own free accord, 

Which negatively shakes its beggared hairs, 

Answers, how truly ! Wherefore do I stay ? 

I have outlived all that inflamed my youth, 

Or made my manhood resolute — outlive I 

A whole misfortune of ancestral gold, 

And all the joy which empty Fame bestows; 

Two things of boundless swa} r , which are at once 



346 A VISION OF DEATH. 

The strong man's weakness aud the weak man's strength. 

A strange sensation through this wreck of dust 

Proclaims a dissolution — let it come. 

Oh Death, time was when I had deemed thy name 

A terror, and thy cold and lleshless hand 

A thing to shrink from ! — it is not so now — 

Next to the names of those who gave me life 

Thine is the dearest, and the next to hers 

Whose hand thou hast usurped, I would clasp thine. 

now now ? these marble monuments, like ghosts, 

Do rise and stand above their natural wont, 

And waver in the wind — I faint — who speaks ? 

The Spirit of Death answers from the air. 
'Tis He whose name but now was on thy lips 
Thou didst desire me ; dost now repent ? 

OLD MAX. 

No! 

DEATH. 

But thou dost tremble ! 

OLD MAX. 

Not at thee, for yet 
I do behold thee not — this tenement 
Doth topple with the weight of years ; — thy breath 
May crumble it to dust ; but thou shalt see 



A VISION OF DEATH. 347 

The spirit standing on the ruin here ; 

And face to face, answering speech for speech, 

Fearless as I do now. I can dare all ! 



Dost thou defy ? 

OLD MAN. 

Nothing except thy terrors. 
My soul was fashioned for command, not fear. 

DEATH. 

Command'st thou me ? 

OLD MAN. 

No, not as did the hag 
Of Endor the poor ghost, for I have still 
Enough of courage to brave more of life ; 
But being here thou art most welcome. 



Nay, 
But knowest thou what I am ? 

OLD MAN. 

If thou' art Death, 
Then have I pictured thee a spirit fair, 
And full of loving-kindness unto all; 
In love thou seal'st the infant's waxen eyes, 



348 a vision or death. 

And tak'st the lily maiden to thy breast, 

Or pour'st a healing balm in Manhood's wounds, - 

Or oil upon the troubled waves of Age. 

Speak I not true ? 

DEATH. 

. Words may not answer that. 
Now let thine eyes instead compare the picture — 
Come, look on me ! 

OLD MAN. 

I do! 

BEATH. 

Well, what say'st thou ? 
Am I the thing of terror men have chosen 
To name me ? 

OLD MAN. 

Wonder, like the unloosed wind 
Seizes me — I cannot speak — yet — 

DEATH. 

Would not 
Curse me ? 

OLD MAN. 

Curse thee ? Oh, no ! a thousand tongues 
Are clamorous within my soul to sing 



A VISION OF DEATH. 319 

Thy great, surprising loveliness. — Thine eyes 

Are wells of pity and of love, thy lips 

Wreathed with the sainted smile of her who blessed 

My earliest infancy. All that the world 

E'er crowned me with, of sweet and beautiful, 

Is crowded in the compass of thy face. 

Art thou thus lovely unto all ? 

DEATH. 

I am 

What they who find me make me. — Shall we go ? 

OLD MAN. 

Whither? 

DEATH. 

Upward — and onward, into outer space, 
Where she, thy kindred spirit, waitcth thee. 

OLD MAN. 

m 

Most willingly — but stay, one moment yet, 

To let me gaze where I shall gaze no more, 

On this new mound — hold ! what is this which lies 

Across her grave — the figure of a man ! 

A poor old man, in dusty, threadbare robes ; 

See there, how thin his hair is and how white ! 

How pale he looks ! and yet he wears a smile ; 

Oh, now if I had alms to give, here — 
30 



350 A VISION OF DEATH. 

DEATH. 

Alas! 
Hast thou forgot thine own poor tenement 
So soon ? — 
( The Spirit or the Old Man leaning over the body exclaims, ) 
'Tis not a face that I am used 
To look upon — poor dust ! 

When Death leads him gently away. 






L'ENVOI. 



I bring the flower you asked of me, 
A simple bloom, nor bright nor rare, 

But like a star its light will be 
Within the darkness of your hair. 

It grew not in those guarded bowers 

Where rustling fountains sift their spray, 

But gladly drank the common showers 
Of dew beside the dusty way. 

It may be in its humble sphere 

It cheered the pilgrim of the road, 

And shed as blest an alms, as e'er 

The generous hand of Wealth bestowed. 

(351) 



352 i/envoi. 

Or though, save mine, it met no eye, 
But secretly looked up and grew, 

And from the loving air and sky 
Its little store of beauty drew. 

And though it breathed its small perfumes 
So low they did not woo the bee, — 

Exalted, how it shines and blooms, 
Above all flowers, since worn by thee. 

And thus the song you bade me sing, 
May be a rude and artless lay, 

And yet it grew a sacred thing 
To bless me on Life's dusty way. 

And unto this, my humble strain, 
How much of beauty shall belong, 

If thou wilt in thy memory deign 
To wear my simple flower of song ! 



THE END. 



311-77-9 



